Rabbi Noach Isaac Oelbaum

Cherish the Challenge

Years ago, Rav Shmuel Berenbaum zt”l, the Rosh Yeshiva of Mir, shared a marvelous insight.

When Yaakov Avinu heard that Yosef HaTzaddik was still alive, the Torah records his response: “Od Yosef chai… elcha ve’erenu b’terem amus—My son Yosef is still alive; I will go and see him before I die” (Bereishis 45:28). Rav Shmuel asked an obvious question.

Of course Yaakov would not be able to see Yosef after he passed away. Why, then, did he emphasize that he wants to see him before he dies?

Rav Shmuel explained with an illustration. Rav Elchonon Wasserman hy”d would often urge his students to seize every opportunity to see his Rebbe, the Chofetz Chaim, while he was still alive. His reasoning was simple. In this world, access to the Chofetz Chaim was possible. But in the World to Come, the spiritual disparity between a person and the Chofetz Chaim may be so great that one may no longer merit seeing him. His elevation in Olam Haba may place him beyond reach.

So too with Yaakov and Yosef. Yaakov, in his great humility, understood the immense spiritual stature Yosef had attained, having withstood relentless temptation day after day in the house of Potiphar. Yosef’s triumph placed him on a level so exalted that Yaakov feared that in the Next World, even he might not merit closeness to his son. Now, while Yosef was still in this world, was the moment to go.

This is a deeply humbling lesson. When you see a Jew struggling, grappling with challenges and adversity, know that such a person may be attaining an extraordinarily high standing in Shamayim. Do not underestimate the spiritual greatness forged through struggle. In the Next World, that individual’s stature may be far beyond what we can imagine. Even when we stumble, even when we are not fully successful, the effort itself has immense value in Heaven.

The Gemara (Megillah 29a) teaches that in the times of Moshiach, all the synagogues and batei midrashos outside of Eretz Yisroel will be transported to Eretz Yisroel. Why, asked the Satmar Rebbe, will Hashem perform such a miracle? Why not simply build new ones?

The Satmar Rebbe explained that when Mashiach comes, there will be a deep yearning for the avodah of galus, the service of Hashem forged in hardship. That avodah, born of difficulty, will no longer exist in the same way. And because that struggle brought the greatest nachas ruach to the Ribbono Shel Olam and we too appreciate it, Hashem preserves it, transplanting those shuls and batei midrashos so that the memory and merit of that avodah endure.

We must recognize and appreciate the preciousness of our nisyonos and ups and downs. Never discount the spiritual power of effort, persistence, and faith in the face of challenge. Because the greatness you attain by virtue of your very own struggles knows no limit.

Rabbi Dovid Ozeirey

A Revived Spirit

In the aftermath of World War II, when the concentration camps were liberated, tens of thousands of Jews were left utterly alone, stripped of their families, homes and future. To house them, the Allies established Displaced Persons camps, filled with Jews of every background imaginable: secular, Reform, Enlightenment thinkers, and deeply observant Chassidim.

Among them stood one towering figure, revered by all: the Klausenberger Rebbe.

The Rebbe had endured the unendurable. He lost his wife and children, was beaten repeatedly, left to be dead more than once, and yet, even in Auschwitz, he refused to surrender a single minhag. He emerged broken in body, but unbroken in spirit. In the DP camp, still relatively young, he became the spiritual anchor for thousands.

One day, the camp was informed that Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, was coming to visit. The date and time were set. Then they checked the calendar.

It was Yom Kippur.

The Rebbe immediately responded: “He cannot come that day. It is the holiest day of the Jewish year.” The reply, though, was firm: the General’s schedule could not be changed. One more condition followed. Eisenhower would meet the camp publicly, but only one spokesperson could address him.

A fierce argument erupted. Many insisted the spokesman must be modern, polished and representative of enlightenment; not an old-fashioned Rebbe from another world. After bitter dispute, they relented, but imposed three conditions: the Rebbe must not mention G-d’s Name; he must not offer mussar or religious rebuke; he must keep his remarks brief.

The Rebbe listened and calmly agreed.

Yom Kippur arrived. In the middle of the holy day, the U.S. Army erected an enormous makeshift structure to accommodate thousands. Then the soldiers entered, as did Eisenhower, who approached the platform. The Rebbe too stepped forward.

Immediately, he took out a brand-new tallis and recited Shehecheyanu aloud.

They had forbidden him from mentioning God in his speech. This, he signaled, was not a speech; it was a blessing.

He then spoke about the Jewish people and our mission, our endurance, our faith, and our moral responsibility to humanity. Hardened soldiers wept. Secular Jews sobbed openly. It is said that even Eisenhower himself was moved to tears.

When the Rebbe finished, Eisenhower turned to him and said: “Holy Rabbi, what can I do for your people? Tell me, and I will do it.” The Rebbe answered without hesitation. “In four days, it is Sukkos. We need Arba Minim—a lulav, esrog, hadassim, and aravos. We have none.” Eisenhower was stunned. These were people without clothing, homes, or families, and this was the request? He immediately ordered a military plane dispatched to Italy. Within days, Arba Minim arrived for the Jews of the camp.

Why did the Rebbe ask this for that of all things?

He understood something profound. These people were shattered, traumatized and numb. What they needed most was not comfort or pity, but dignity and purpose. And mitzvos, he knew, restore joy and rebuild the neshama.

That is how a broken people began to live again.

In your own life, when life breaks you down, stripping you of every last vestige of strength, remember where to reach out. To the depths of your soul, which is revived through a connection to Hakadosh Baruch Hu and Torah and mitzvos.

Because when you connect to that, even the most broken spirit can turn into a beacon of strength. 

Rabbi Paysach Krohn

The Shoes We Fill

In almost every concentration camp, whether Auschwitz, Majdanek, or any other, you encounter the same haunting sight: vast rooms filled with shoes. Thousands upon thousands of pairs overflow chambers.

Why, though, shoes of all things?

Shoes symbolize movement and progress. A human being, in contrast to an angel, is termed a ‘mehalech,’ capable of growth, ascent, transformation, and spiritual progress. Shoes speak to this dynamic. Yet, for all the precious souls whose lives went up in those concentration camps, those shoes remain heartbreakingly empty.

But it is not merely six million lives that were lost. It is sixty million. Because every soul murdered could have built generations of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Entire worlds erased.

However, if Baruch Hashem we are alive, we must fill those shoes. How, though, do we do that?

By transmitting Torah, yiras Shamayim, chesed, and a living legacy from the past into the future. And I believe the first and most essential step is this: to build a happy home.

Let me share a remarkable Gemara.

The Gemara (Taanis 22a) relates that Rav Beroka was once walking with Eliyahu HaNavi. Eliyahu pointed to two ordinary-looking men in the marketplace and said, “These two are destined for Olam Haba.” Astonished, Rav Beroka approached them and asked what they did. Their answer was extraordinary in its simplicity. “We are happy people, and we make unhappy people happy.”

Imagine that. If you lift the spirit of a broken person, if you bring joy to someone who is hurting, you earn a direct share in Olam Haba.

The Me’am Lo’ez makes a penetrating observation.

The Torah rebukes Klal Yisrael for failing to serve Hashem b’simcha, despite abundance (Devarim 28:47). Simcha is not just a nice addition to life as a Jew. It is an essential foundation. Notably, these men did not merely say, “We make others happy.” They said: “We are happy people, and we make others happy.”

The lesson is so very important and fundamental. If you want to bring joy to others, you must first cultivate joy within yourself.

A depressed person, no matter how well-intentioned, cannot truly uplift others. You cannot make your spouse happy, your children happy, or your home peaceful if you live in constant negativity. A home steeped in sadness repels, whereas a home infused with simcha draws people in.

This is the first principle of marriage and the foundation of chinuch. Life is full of difficulty and every person carries burdens. But if we train ourselves to look for the good, to speak positive, to smile despite hardship, people will want to be near us. As someone once put it beautifully: “A smile is a small curve that straightens many things.”

I once heard a piece of wisdom from my rebbi, Rav David Cohen shlita. A deeply unhappy man once came to him with marital problems. Rav Dovid told him that when he comes home from work, he must tell his wife a joke. The next day, Rav Dovid thought back and smiled. “I made a mistake. I should have told him to tell three jokes, because with his sense of humor, the first two won’t work.”

Humor aside, the message is serious.

Children absorb marriage long before they understand it. When parents treat each other with respect, warmth, and appreciation, children internalize marriage as a safe and desirable place. But when parents belittle, criticize and fight, children learn that marriage is something to fear.

Stephen Covey expressed this perfectly: “The greatest thing you can do for your children is to love your spouse.” The strength of that bond creates emotional security throughout the family. The quality of the marriage determines the quality of family life.

A psychologist I know once offered a powerful, practical rule, rooted in a Pasuk: “La’petach chatas rovetz—Sin crouches at the door” (Bereishis 4:7). When you enter your home, leave negativity at the door. Choose positivity first. Say something good before unloading the stress of the day.

A husband should enter the home and greet his wife with a smile and encouragement. And a wife should greet her husband with warmth and a positive attitude. Negativity can wait. Remember this: the right temperature in a home is maintained not by hot heads, but by warm hearts.

And when warmth fills a home, we begin, finally, to fill the shoes that were left behind.

Rabbi Yisroel Brog

Education from Birth

There is a sefer called Avnei HaChinuch, which gathers foundational principles of chinuch drawn from the teachings of the great gaon and tzaddik, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch zt”l. One of his statements is both startling and profound: chinuch begins from the moment a child is born.

When I first encountered this idea, I was perplexed. What chinuch is possible with a newborn? What, exactly, can a parent do?

Rav Hirsch explains that the essence of chinuch is to train a child to listen and learn that his will is not absolute, and that there is an authority higher than his own desires. This, he says, is the greatest lifelong challenge facing every human being. Ask a child why he does something, and the answer is simple: “Because I want to.” Ask an adult the same question, and very often the answer is identical. “Because I want to. I want what suits me, when it suits me.”

That impulse—to do only what one wants—is the root deterioration of human nature.

Rav Hirsch does not mean to advocate for coercion or harshness. Rather, he is describing calm, consistent training. A child cannot yet follow verbal instruction, but he can learn that not every desire is immediately fulfilled. Every parent recognizes this at bedtime. Very few children go to sleep simply because they are told to. But patient parents gently return the child to bed again and again, without anger. After several nights, something remarkable happens: the child learns that bedtime means bedtime.

This is not merely bedtime training. It is life training.

A human being must learn that he cannot do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, however he wants. Desire alone is not the measure of an outcome. A child must learn to ask and self-reflect: “Is this good for me? Is this right? Is this what is expected of me?”

If a child learns that tantrums produce results, he is being trained for failure. Such a person can never become a servant of Hashem, because avodas Hashem requires doing what is right and not merely what is comfortable or appealing. This is the wisdom of chinuch. And it is not limited to children.

A mitzvah does not mean “a nice deed.” A mitzvah means a command. Commands are not given to be liked; they are given to be followed. Appreciation and love come later, and ideally they do, but the first step is obedience. Even one’s thoughts and vision are subject to discipline. A person is responsible for where he looks, what he dwells on, and what he allows into his inner world.

The great baalei mussar embodied this truth. Rabbi Yerucham Levovitz zt”l trained himself to see only what was directly in front of him. Students testified that he could walk past distractions without noticing them at all, and not because he was unaware, but because his inner discipline was absolute. His eyes, like his will, were not hefker.

This is the message a parent must convey: life is governed by right and wrong, and not by impulse. Children will only accept this if they see adults living by it as well. If children see parents doing whatever they please, they will never accept limits themselves.

Chinuch therefore begins with self-chinuch. How often do we wake up in the morning and think, “I don’t feel like getting up today?” And yet we get up—because it is right. Growth never happens in the areas where things are easy or enjoyable. Growth happens precisely when we subordinate our will to something higher.

That is the deepest meaning of chinuch: training a human being, child or adult, to align personal desire with the ratzon Hashem. Not to erase the will, but to elevate it. Not to deny desire, but to refine it.

And that is how real greatness is formed.

Rabbi Avrohom Mordche Malach

Level to Level

Have you ever had this thought?

“How could this be? I was in such a good place. I made a real kabbalah, and I felt strong, stable and elevated, and now I’m facing the same challenge again and it’s even harder. How did I fall back like this?”

Let me explain with an image many of us remember.

When we were children, there was a game called Time Out. Later it became Nintendo, then Game Boy. The structure was always the same. You start on Level One and you play, you struggle, you succeed. You rack up five hundred points and suddenly: Congratulations! You’re promoted to Level Two.

And Level Two is harder.

You earn more points, and now you’re at Level Three, which is harder still. Then Level Four, and then Level Five. If you reached Level Ten or Twelve, you were the king of the class.

Now imagine a child saying: “I don’t understand. I played so well on Level One. Why isn’t Level Two easier?” We all know the answer. The greatest reward for success is not ease; it is a greater challenge, a higher level and a more demanding test. That is how growth works.

And that is exactly how life works.

We are now reading the Parshiyos of the Avos. Think about Avraham Avinu. How much do we actually know about his daily life? What time did he wake up? What did he eat for breakfast? What was his learning schedule? How many hours a day did he teach? Where was his yeshivah?

We know almost nothing. What do we know?

Ten episodes. Ten challenges. Asarah nisyonos. That is it. The Torah never shows Avraham relaxing on a couch. No scenes of leisure, no “everything is going great” chapters. Not in the lives of Avraham, Yitzchak or Yaakov.

Why? Because that’s not what defines them.

The Torah teaches us that a person is not shaped by their comfort, but by their challenges. The Avos became the Avos precisely because they were tested, again and again, at ever-higher levels. Each nisayon was not a setback; it was a promotion.

And this is the key lesson for our own lives.

When a challenge returns, especially when it returns stronger, it does not mean you fell back. It means you moved up. Hashem does not give Level Three challenges to someone still stuck on Level One. If the test is harder, it is because you are trusted with more. You didn’t regress. You advanced. And Hashem is saying: “You passed the previous stage. Now let’s see what you can do at the next level.”

So instead of saying, “How did I fall again?” Say, “I’ve been promoted.” Because every nisayon is evidence of Hashem’s confidence in you.

We are not going backward. We are climbing. Level after level. Challenge after challenge. Strength after strength.

Chazak, chazak, v’nischazek.

Rabbi Yaakov Bender

Look the Right Way

At the end of Parshas Mishpatim, the Torah tells us that the elders of Klal Yisrael perceived a vision of Hashem, something they were not meant to behold. And yet, what they did see was extraordinary. The Torah describes it as, “Under His feet was something like a sapphire brick” (Shemos 24:10).

Why a brick? Chazal (Vayikra Rabbah 23:8) explain that it was to remember the suffering of Klal Yisrael. Bricks were the symbol of Egyptian bondage. The Jewish people endured heavy, crushing, backbreaking labor, especially after Pharaoh decreed that they must gather their own straw and still produce the same quota. The brick represented pain, oppression and suffering.

But why would Hashem need a reminder? Hashem never forgets.

The brick, though, was not placed there because Hashem needed a reminder. We do.

The highest spiritual state is incomplete if it is detached from the suffering of others. Even at the moment of spiritual revelation and elevation, as the elders beheld Hashem, Hashem taught that awareness of another’s pain must remain directly “under our feet”—within our line of sight.

That, Chazal teach, is the task of a Jew: to see. To see the pain of another and not look away.

A single human being embodied this truth in modern times: Rabbi Hershel Weber.

In the early 1960s, on a street in Williamsburg, a man collapsed. People stood around while someone called for an ambulance. Tragically, it didn’t come in time. The man died. Many people saw the man fall. But Rabbi Hershel Weber saw something else: a responsibility.

The very next day, he began organizing what would become Hatzolah. A group of ordinary people, many with no medical background, trained themselves quickly. What began as a response to one moment of suffering became the largest volunteer ambulance organization in the world.

Why? Because he didn’t look away.

Eyes can guide a person in two directions. They can pull a person toward emptiness and distraction or they can awaken responsibility, compassion, and action. Rabbi Weber chose the second path. And because of that choice, countless lives have been saved.

That is the meaning of the sapphire brick. Hakadosh Baruch Hu places suffering “under His feet” not because He needs to remember, but to teach us how to look. To attune our eyes and hearts to the pain around us, and to recognize that spiritual greatness is measured not only by how high we ascend, but by how deeply we see others.

Every day, we are given a choice: Look the wrong way—and move on. Or look the right way—and change a life. And that choice does not last a moment.

It lasts a lifetime.

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

Seven Priceless Dollars

One bein hazmanim, when I was a seventeen-year-old yeshiva bochur, I took the only money I had and which I had saved up for a long time—seven dollars—and traveled all the way to the Lower East Side. I had one goal: to buy a sefer, Bnei Yissaschar, written by the great Rebbe of Dinov, Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech of Dinov.

After searching, I finally found it. I brought the sefer to the counter, took out my seven dollars, and waited. The bookseller opened the sefer, looked inside, and said quietly, “I’m sorry. This sefer costs eight dollars.”

He didn’t know that seven dollars was all I had. He didn’t know how long I had saved up, or how far I had come. I felt crushed. But what could I do? I thanked him, placed the sefer back on the shelf, and began walking toward the door.

Just as I opened the door to leave, he called me back. A woman behind the counter, likely his wife, motioned for me to return too. And from beneath the counter, he took out another copy.

“This,” he said, “is also a Bnei Yissaschar. But it’s defective.”

He showed it to me. The first pages were missing and there were double-printed pages, pages layered on top of one another. The text only began properly on page thirty-three. From there, most of the sefer was intact. He opened the front cover and showed me the price written inside: seven dollars. I placed my seven dollars on the counter, as he then handed me the sefer and asked if I wanted a bag. I knew I didn’t need one. I wasn’t letting go of that sefer for anything.

For years, that worn, imperfect volume was more precious to me than any other sefer I owned. Others might have looked at it and said, pasul. Damaged. Incomplete. Not worth much. But to me, it was priceless.

Years later, a yeshiva wished to honor me. They told me they wanted to present me with a magnificent new edition of the Bnei Yissaschar—leather-bound, beautifully printed, my name embossed in gold. I thanked them deeply, but I declined. Hashem had already given me my Bnei Yissaschar. And I would not trade it for all the money in the world.

In life, never judge a book by its cover. Not a sefer. Not a person.

Because, truly, everything and everyone, despite it seeming to be defective, can be more priceless than you ever imagined.

Rabbi Joey Haber

Quiet Heroes

Everyone would agree that the world has gone a little mad. But there is a quieter side effect that we don’t always notice: our sense of values have shifted. What we admire, what we celebrate, and what we call “greatness” has been fundamentally redefined.

A hundred years ago, a hero was someone who sacrificed and someone who worked hard, lived with integrity, and upheld strong values. Today, in 2026, a “hero” is often the person with the most followers, the loudest voice, or the most chaos surrounding them. Noise has replaced substance. Attention has replaced character. Too often, greatness is measured by who draws the biggest crowd, who stands on the largest stage, who sings the loudest, or who writes the most publicized check.

But, in Judaism, that is not where true greatness lies. Greatness lives in quiet places.

It lives within the mother in her home, raising her children. The mother who sits on the edge of her daughter’s bed, telling her a story to calm her before sleep. The father who patiently teaches his son how to straighten his room. The mother who knows which child needs a phone call and which needs a gentle comment. The father who sometimes says the wrong thing, reflects, and then goes back to repair it.

That mother and father are heroes.

She will never trend. He will never have thousands of followers. But they are building neshamos, and that is far greater than building an audience.

A single woman who is older than she hoped to be, yet continues to hold on to her emunah and bitachon, waiting with dignity and faith—that woman is a hero. Quiet perseverance is heroism. Do not let the world’s narrative redefine your vision.

There is a beautiful story that captures this truth.

A man once went to a Rebbe and said, “Rebbe, I want to meet Eliyahu HaNavi.” To that, the Rebbe replied, “Take a basket of food, go deep into the forest, and leave it by a small hut. There you will meet him.” The man did as instructed, but saw no one. He returned to the Rebbe, confused. “Go again,” the Rebbe said.

Day after day, for a full week, the man brought a basket of food to the hut. One day, as he approached quietly, he overheard a conversation inside. The children were crying, “Mama, we’re hungry.” And the mother said calmly, “Don’t worry. Just like last week, and the week before, Hashem will send Eliyahu HaNavi again.”

The man froze.

He gently placed the basket down and whispered to himself, “So I am Eliyahu HaNavi for this family. I am the angel Hashem sent.”

That same truth exists in your home.

You may not see wings. You may not hear thunder. But if you are holding a family together, nurturing your children, providing love, faith, and stability, you are Eliyahu HaNavi. You are the angel of that home.

Our heroes are not defined by how much noise they make. They are defined by how much good they quietly bring into the world.

And that kind of greatness never fades.

Rabbi Fischel Schachter

Mother Won

My mother a”h had a quiet, unwavering habit. Whenever she left the house, whether to the store, on a walk, even on a picnic, she took food with her. Not just food for herself, but extra food, in case someone might ask.

No one ever did.

Years passed. Decades passed. Still, she never went out without food to give. I never understood why, until one day, she told me.

My mother rarely spoke about the war. But she had survived the death marches. They walked for days in wooden clogs through freezing mud. Girls collapsed constantly, and if someone fell, you couldn’t help them. To stop was to be shot.

At one point, they passed a German woman standing by the road, holding food. The girls begged her—just a piece, just a crumb. The woman spat at them and said, “You don’t ask people for food on the street, you miserable Jews,” and walked away.

Moments later, one of the girls collapsed and died. The pain, the hunger and the humiliation all converged in that instant. And at the sight of that, everyone began cursing the woman who hadn’t given this poor Jewish woman a morsel of bread.

Everyone—except my mother. She said to herself: “What will I gain from cursing? Nothing.” And then she made a vow.” “If I survive this war,” she promised Hashem, “I will never leave my house without food to give to someone.”

That was why she always carried food.

After the war, she met my father. On paper, they had nothing in common. They came from different countries. They didn’t even speak the same kind of Yiddish. The only thing they shared was homelessness and loss. My father told her his own war story. Once, starving, he went to someone’s house and was turned away. While others cursed, he made a promise of his own: “If I live, I will never eat unless I have a guest.”

My mother smiled and said, “Perfect. I made the same promise. Let’s get married.”

Fast-forward many years.

My mother was seventy-four. I was taking her to medical treatments in Manhattan. It took time to get her into the car with her walker and we were already running late. As we were driving, the nurse called, asking where we were. I said, truthfully, that we were on our way. Then, as we approached the highway, my mother suddenly said, “Turn around.”

“Ma, why?” “I forgot to bring food.” I said, “Ma, no one has asked you for food in seventy years. I’ll buy something on the way.” “No,” she said. “Turn around.” We turned back. She went inside, got food, and only then would she leave.

We arrived very late. The doctor was upset. The reports were not good.

On the way back, my mother asked me to park a block away. We walked slowly together. On the corner, where for years there had been a bank, a drugstore, all kinds of shops, there was an old man sitting silently on a milk crate. I had seen him there countless times. I had never heard him speak.

As we passed, he looked up and said, “Mrs… do you have something to eat?”

My mother didn’t say a word.

She reached into her bag and handed him the food. In that moment, everything became clear. Forget the doctor. Forget the reports. Forget the Germans. Forget the war. They never succeeded in making her curse. They turned her into someone who gave.

At that moment, my mother won the war.

We all carry pent-up emotion, the likes of anger, pain, resentment. The instinct is to release it on someone else. But if we pause and say, “Hashem, I’m holding it back—and I’m choosing to use it for good,” we have no idea how much life and how much blessing Hakadosh Baruch Hu just added to our years.

What a tragedy it would be to waste such an opportunity. Because if we use the moment for good, it will last for eternity.

Rebbetzin Slovie Jungreis-Wolff

Hashem Within You

At the end of Parshas Mikeitz, Binyamin is accused of stealing Yosef’s goblet. Though the brothers are stunned, Yosef declares that Binyamin will remain in Egypt as a slave. Of course, Yosef is not acting out of cruelty. He is testing them. Have they changed? Have they done teshuvah? Have they learned to take responsibility for one another?

And then Yehudah steps forward.

He offers himself as a slave in place of Binyamin, without knowing that the man before him is the very brother he once sold into slavery. In that moment, Yosef sees it clearly: they are no longer the same people. The brothers have transformed.

Yosef can no longer contain himself. He clears the room and reveals the truth:

“Ani Yosef—I am Yosef. Is my father still alive?” With those words, Hashem’s master plan is revealed. The confusion, the pain, the years of unanswered questions suddenly all take shape. The brothers understand that nothing was random and nothing meaningless.

And so it will be, one day, for all of us. There will come a time, personally and nationally, when Hashem will reveal Himself, and we will finally understand the suffering of Jewish history and the pain within our own lives.

But there is something even deeper in this encounter.

When Yehudah speaks to Yosef, he says the words, “Bi adoni.” We usually translate this as “please, my master.” But read literally, the words mean, “Within me is Hashem.” Godliness resides within me.

That is a radical idea.

So often in life, we diminish ourselves. We tell ourselves we are not good enough, not spiritual enough, not worthy enough. We focus on our mistakes, our past and our dysfunction. We convince ourselves that blessings are meant for others, but not for us.

Just this week, I spoke with a young woman who said exactly this. “I daven so hard,” she told me. “And nothing works. I feel useless.” When I looked at her, I saw that she was missing her spark. And I thought of Yehudah’s words: “Bi adoni—Within me is the Divine.”

Every single morning, we say Modeh Ani. “Thank You, Hashem, for returning my soul… rabbah emunasecha—great is Your faith in me.” If you are alive, if you were created, if you are here in this world, it means Hashem believes in you. You are needed. You carry a spark of the Divine within you.

On October 7^th, a young man named Yehuda Becher was killed at the Nova festival. Sometimes we see people and have no idea what light they carry inside.

During the shivah, a friend shared a short video. Yehuda was driving and singing softly, smiling as he sang the words of a tefillah we all know:“Elokai, neshama shenasata bi tehorah hi—My God, the soul You placed within me is pure.” His friend explained that he had been feeling very low and reached out to Yehuda. “Cheer me up,” he said. “Make me laugh.”

Yehuda didn’t send a joke. He didn’t send a comedian. He sang to him the truth. You are walking around with holiness inside you.

How can a person remain broken when they know they carry a Divine soul? How can someone believe they are worthless when Hashem Himself placed a piece of eternity within them? His family later said it with quiet awe: the young man who seemed so ordinary was, in truth, extraordinary.

From Yehudah in the Torah to Yehuda of October 7^th, the message is the same: Bi adoni. Godliness is within me, no matter who I am, no matter where I’ve been.

And that changes everything.

Mr. Charlie Harary

Real Success

Success.

It’s a word we all chase, often without really knowing what it means. We want successful children, successful marriages, successful careers, a successful life. But what is success?

If you look carefully at the Torah, you’ll notice something striking. The Torah almost never declares someone “successful.” There are no diplomas handed out, no final grades, no moment where Hashem says, “You’ve arrived.” Growth never ends.

With one clear exception.

Yosef HaTzaddik.

When Yosef is brought down to Egypt and enters the house of Potiphar, the Torah says:

“Vayehi Hashem es Yosef, vayehi ish matzliach—Hashem was with Yosef, and he was a successful man.”

That should stop us cold.

Yosef’s life unfolds in three major chapters: He begins as a boy in Yaakov’s home, sitting at the feet of Yaakov Avinu, immersed in Torah, receiving the deepest mesorah. But there’s no mention there of of hatzlacha.

The other end of the spectrum is his phase leadership in Egypt. He is thirty years old, interpreting Pharaoh’s dreams, saving an empire and turning Egypt into the greatest economic power of the ancient world. But there’s still no declaration of success.

The middle chapter of his life, however, is where Yosef is sold by his own brothers, stripped of dignity, living as a slave in a foreign land, and performing menial labor in Potiphar’s house.

And there, precisely there, the Torah calls him successful.

Why?

Rashi explains the verse, “Vayar adonav ki Hashem ito—Potiphar saw that Hashem was with Yosef” (Bereishis 39:3) as meaning that “the Name of Heaven was constantly on Yosef’s lips.” Yosef woke up in the morning and said, “Baruch Hashem.”

Think about that.

A short time earlier, Yosef was learning Torah at the highest caliber. Now he’s a slave, betrayed by family, alone and humiliated. And still, he says Baruch Hashem.

Hashem looks at that and says: “When you thank Me while learning Torah, it is beautiful. When you thank Me in a position of honor and power, it is beautiful. But when you thank Me when you feel abandoned, when you feel that I am hidden, when you are in the lowest place imaginable, and you still say Baruch Hashem, that is My definition of success. “Rachmana liba ba’i—Hashem wants our heart.”

Hashem gives intelligence, opportunity and achievement. Those are gifts to be used responsibly. But when you cannot find Him, and you give Him your heart anyway, there is no greater gift than that.

Every one of us has moments when we feel like we are stuck in the house of Potiphar. Moments of confusion, loss, disappointment or quiet despair. It is precisely then, when we search for Hashem, thank Hashem, and say Baruch Hashem despite everything, that we touch true hatzlacha.

Success therefore is not about being on top. Success is finding Hashem when you feel at the bottom.

And that kind of success never fades.

Dr. David Lieberman

Soft Beginnings, Soft Endings

Sometimes people believe that the angrier they are, the louder they need to be in order to be heard. But when someone screams at us, the opposite happens. We shut down.

Chazal already taught this long ago: the way a conversation begins is the way it ends. Modern research simply confirms what Torah wisdom has always known. The gentler the opening, the softer the tone, the more likely the conversation will lead somewhere constructive.

The real challenge arises when we need to address something painful, such as something another person has done to us. The instinct is to criticize, to point fingers, to accuse. But the moment we do that, the other person goes into self-defense. And once that happens, listening stops.

Here is the key principle: a person cannot feel attacked if you do not accuse them.

If you never say, “You did something wrong,” the other person can keep their ears open, their eyes attentive, and their mouth closed. They can actually hear you.

The way we achieve this is by making the conversation about ourselves. In a calm, respectful space, begin with appreciation: “I really value you. I see the effort you make. I just want to share something I’m struggling with.”

Notice what is missing. No accusations. No attacks. No “You don’t care,” “You’re disrespectful,” or “You never…” Instead, we say: “I’m having a hard time when so-and-so happens,” “This touches something sensitive in me,” “This brings up feelings from my own previous experiences.” You haven’t blamed. You haven’t condemned. You’ve simply shared your inner experience.

And something powerful happens. Instead of feeling attacked, the other person now gets to help. They get to give. And giving feels good. In our relationships, when we are allowed to give rather than defend, we feel elevated and purposeful; almost like partners with Hashem, the ultimate Giver.

So you ask gently: “Could you help me with this?” “Would you mind being mindful of this for me?” “I know it’s not a big thing. I know you don’t mean it. I’m just struggling with it because of my own sensitivities.”

Most people will feel honored, not offended, to be trusted with your vulnerability. They will want to take you out of pain. As long as you don’t put them in the position of being defensive, you create space for connection, compassion, and real change.

Soft beginnings create soft endings.