Rabbi Avrohom Stulberger

$4,500 For Eternity

There was a rabbi in a certain community who walked into a bank one Friday afternoon to cash a check. He handed the teller a $500 check and asked for cash. The teller counted out the money, placed it into an envelope, and handed it to him. The rabbi then proceeded to slip the envelope into his pocket, go home, and give it to his wife. “Here,” he said. “Now you can do whatever shopping needs to be done for Shabbos.”

A few hours later, his wife came back holding the envelope. “What's this?” he asked. "The money from the bank.” He looked at her confused. "This isn't $500," she said. Now it was the husband who was confused. "It's $5,000,” she said.

The teller had made a mistake. Instead of giving him $500, he had given him $5,000. The rabbi looked at the money. His wife looked at him. "You have to return it."

He wasn't so sure. His wife was. "You have to return that money,” she said, pressing the matter. The discussion continued through Shabbos. After Shabbos, he even went to ask a shailah. But his wife remained firm. "I don't care what anyone says. You're giving the money back."

On Tuesday, he returned to the bank and handed back the extra $4,500.

That Friday afternoon, there was a knock at his door. He opened it and found a man standing there. "Can I help you?" "I just came to say thank you,” the man standing at the door began. "Thank me? For what?" "I'm the teller who gave you the money." He then explained that when the bank discovered the missing $4,500, they traced the error back to him. "They called me in and told me, 'You're the teller responsible for this shortage. You're fired.'"

But then the money was returned. "The moment they realized the funds had been brought back, they changed their mind. They told me I could keep my job." The teller paused. "I just want you to know that I desperately needed that job. You saved me."

Then he added something unexpected.

"By the way, are you a rabbi?" "Yes,” came the reply. The man smiled. "I'm a Bukharian Jew, though I’m not very religious. But after what you did for me, after seeing that kind of honesty and integrity, I've started becoming more interested in Torah and Judaism. I've begun learning more. I've started taking steps."

Think about that for a moment. A person walks into a bank and a mistake is made. He returns money that was never his. That's all. No speeches, no fanfare, and no audience. And yet one honest decision saves a man's livelihood, preserves his dignity, and becomes the catalyst for a renewed connection to Torah and mitzvos.

So often, we think only the dramatic moments matter. We imagine that changing a life requires something extraordinary. But sometimes all it takes is doing the right thing when nobody is watching. Most of us will never know the full impact of our choices. We rarely get to see the final chapter of the story. We do what is right because it is right, and then we move on.

But every so often, Hashem pulls back the curtain for a moment and allows us to glimpse what one act of ours can accomplish. And if this was the part of the story that became visible, who knows how much more remained unseen?

Who knows what that teller's future looked like? Who knows what Torah he would learn, what mitzvos he would perform, what family he would influence, what children and grandchildren would be affected because one person chose honesty over convenience? That is the power of a single act, a single moment.

A single act worth $4,500 in this world and eternity in the Next.

Rabbi Ari Bensoussan

The Son With No Coat

My father came to America from Morocco in 1956, arriving with a group of young Moroccan boys who were brought to learn in Yeshiva Torah Vodaath in Brooklyn.

Now, where my father grew up in Morocco, the weather was beautiful year-round. They had never experienced anything like a New York winter. Then January arrived and the temperatures dropped, the wind began cutting through the streets of Brooklyn, and snow covered the sidewalks. And these boys had no coats. It wasn’t because they didn't want coats; they simply couldn't afford them. The yeshiva itself was struggling financially, and there was no money available to buy winter clothing. So there they were, walking up and down Ocean Parkway in the bitter cold, shivering through the winter.

At the time, the Rosh Yeshivah was Reb Avraham Kalmanowitz zt”l, the man who had gone to Morocco to bring many of these boys to America in the first place. His son, Rabbi Shraga Moshe Kalmanowitz, who would later become one of the great Roshei Yeshivah of our generation, saw what was happening.

One day, he walked into his father's office. "Abba," he said, "the Moroccan boys are walking around without coats. It's freezing outside." "I know,” replied Reb Avraham. “But what can I do? We don't have the money and we don't have the resources to buy them coats." Rabbi Shraga Moshe listened. Then, without saying another word, he unbuttoned his own heavy winter coat. He took it off and placed it on his father's desk.

"I want you to know that until those boys have coats, your own son will not wear one either." Then he turned around and walked out. A week or two later, the yeshiva somehow managed to raise the necessary funds, and the boys received their coats.

Whenever I hear this story, I find myself thinking about those intervening days. I imagine Reb Shraga Moshe walking through the streets of Brooklyn in the dead of winter. The wind is biting, the snow is falling and the cold is penetrating straight through to the bone. Every step hurts.

Yet he keeps walking. Why? Because those boys are cold. Because they are suffering. Because he refuses to remain comfortable while they are not.

There is something profoundly powerful about that. So often we think that connection comes through conversation, through speeches, through words. But some of the deepest connections are forged through shared pain. Reb Shraga Moshe was essentially saying, "If they are carrying this burden, then I will carry it with them." I cannot imagine a greater moment of human solidarity than that.

When our lives are over, people will not stand at our funerals and recount how much pleasure we extracted from this world. Nobody will speak about how comfortable we were. Nobody will celebrate how many luxuries we enjoyed.

But my father would tell me about Rabbi Shraga Moshe and say: "Here was a man who willingly walked through the freezing cold without a coat because other Jews did not have one."

That is how a life is evaluated in Heaven. Not by what we took from the world, but by what we gave to the world. And when we are willing to endure discomfort for another Jew, there is nothing greater than that. 

Mrs. Sarah Pachter

The Child and the Candle

When I was a little girl, I would light Shabbos candles every week. One day, someone told me that the reason we cover our eyes after lighting is because the Shechinah (Divine Presence) rests upon the flame, and we are not supposed to look directly at G-d. I was about twelve years old, so naturally, I did what any curious child would do.

I peeked.

I didn't see G-d. And to be honest, I didn't really understand what the person meant. But years later, I think I do.

In the physical world, whenever you give something away, you have less of it. If I have a pizza and give you a slice, I now have one less slice. That's simply how the physical world works. Giving means diminishing what you possess. But there is one remarkable exception: a flame. When I use my candle to light yours, my flame does not become smaller; it becomes larger. There is now more light in the world, not less.

The flame is unique because it teaches us a spiritual truth. Your soul works the same way. The more you give, the more complete you become. The more kindness you offer, the more compassion you show; the more of yourself you invest in others, the fuller your own neshama becomes.

Notice something else about a flame. It is always reaching upward. Turn the candle sideways or upside down, and the flame will continue striving toward the heavens. That is because the flame represents the soul and the soul is the spark of G-dliness within every human being. It is the part of us that longs for meaning, yearns for goodness, and seeks to connect to something higher than ourselves.

What is the soul made of?

The Torah tells us that when G-d created Adam, He "blew into his nostrils the breath of life” (Bereishis 2:7).

Take a deep breath… and now exhale. What happens when you breathe out? You take something that was once inside you and place it into the world.

That is why the Torah uses the language of breath. G-d was, so to speak, placing something of Himself into us. The soul is not merely something G-d created, but something that comes from Him. A piece of the Divine resides within every one of us.

Now, what does that Divine spark within drive us to do? What light does it illuminate to the world?

Howard Schultz, former CEO of Starbucks, recounts how when visiting the legendary Rosh Yeshiva of the Mir, Rav Nosson Tzvi Finkel zt”l, Rav Nosson Tzvi asked him and a number of other executives: what is the lesson we learn from Auschwitz?

Rav Nosson Tzvi replied that we learned that five men can share one blanket. In Auschwitz, a blanket was often given to every fifth prisoner and the person holding it faced a choice. He could keep it for himself or he could share it with four others. And despite the unimaginable cruelty, starvation and suffering, those precious, holy Jews chose to share.

In a place designed to strip people of their humanity, people still found the strength to act humanely. They gave. And in giving, they revealed the greatness of the human soul. No matter how others treat us, we retain the ability to choose our response. The world may accuse us and misunderstand us, but our identity is determined by what we choose to do. It is forged by our ability to generate goodness where there is cruelty and light where there is darkness. That greatness cannot be taken away because it emanates from the soul. And the soul, like a flame, never stops reaching upward.

So perhaps that is why Jews have always loved candles.

They remind us of who we are.

Rabbi Shaya Cohen

Holding Up The World

One of the defining moments of my life took place on a cold winter night in Yerushalayim.

The Beis Midrash was heated during the day by way of old furnaces, but at night it was freezing. With no central heating, there was only the lingering chill of stone walls and winter air. I was learning with one of the great Torah scholars of Yerushalayim, though at the time I did not know that he would one day become my father-in-law.

For nearly two hours we sat together, immersed in Torah, wrestling with the pshat (explanation) of a difficult sugya (Talmudic topic). We went back and forth, challenging one another and probing various possibilities of understanding. I was looking for a vigorous debate, and I found one. It was both demanding and exhilarating.

When we finally finished, we stood up to leave. And as we prepared to part ways, he took my hand.

Then, in a tone and with an expression that left an indelible impression upon me, he said, "People think that architects design buildings, builders construct them, and engineers make them stand. They think that these are the people who sustain the world."

His voice began to tremble. Then he quoted the Pasuk, "Im lo berisi yomam va’laylah chukos shamayim va'aretz lo samti—Were it not for My covenant day and night, I would not have established the laws of heaven and earth” (Yirmiyah 33:25). As he recited the words, tears began streaming down his cheeks.

He looked at me and said, "The world was created for what we did here tonight. While we were sitting and learning Torah, we were holding up the world." I stood there in silence. The conviction in his voice, the sincerity of his tears, and the absolute certainty with which he spoke transformed those words from an idea into a reality.

Many years have passed since that winter night, but the impression it left upon me has never faded. It taught me that Torah study is not merely an intellectual pursuit. It is participation in the very purpose of creation itself.

It is a lesson I have never forgotten.

Rabbi Yoel Gold

The Dream

It was wartime and her son was serving in Gaza. All had been going alright until the one night when she experienced an extraordinarily vivid dream. It was the kind of dream you never expect; the kind which sends you into confusing shock.

In the dream, her son and his entire unit had been killed in battle. But not only that. She saw the funeral, the mourners, and even herself standing at her son's side. The dream felt viscerally real, shaking her awake into a state of panic.

Unable to shake the feeling, she immediately contacted the military authorities. “Please,” she said, “let my son return just for Shabbat, just for the weekend.” Her worries would not abate until her son was safe, at home and in her arms. Eventually, after reluctance, permission was granted and he returned home.

That Friday night, news came of the worst. The soldier’s unit had been involved in a fierce battle, taking lives. Seven lives. All seven soldiers from the unit of the soldier who had returned home were killed.

But the story did not end there.

Because there was an eighth. He just was somewhere else.

At the very moment those seven soldiers lost their lives, this soldier who had returned home suffered a sudden heart attack and died on the spot.

The mother was heartbroken and comforted all at once, because she knew without doubt that it was her son’s time to make the passage from earth back to Heaven. Nothing could have changed that outcome. Hashem had known that he completed his life’s mission, and no matter where he was, whether in the frontlines or home front, it was time for his precious soul to return to its eternal abode. G-d would see to just that.

Had her son been fighting, the pain might have been far greater, as attributing his death to preventable circumstances would have racketed her mind night after night. The situation would have led itself to doubts and uncertainties and questions of, “What if? Why him? Why there? Why now?” But the circumstances as they unfolded and when they unfolded made unquestionably clear that it was the hand of G-d. And that above all, proved that in truth, everything was and is Divinely ordained. Even if something materializes in a way which appears it could have turned out differently if only this or that would have transpired, in fact, the way to resolve such anguishing dilemma is by rerouting the thought to Hashem.

We often imagine that events themselves determine our fate, and had we taken a different road, accepted a different job, avoided a particular place, or made another choice, the outcome would have changed. But emunah teaches us a different truth. The event is only the messenger. The circumstances are merely the vehicle through which Divine providence unfolds.

Hashem has countless ways to bring about what is meant to occur. No accident, financial setback, missed opportunity, or unforeseen circumstance possesses independent power. They are only instruments in a far larger plan.

This realization is not meant to frighten us. On the contrary, it should comfort us.

We are always in Hashem’s hands. And therefore, our mind ought not to be filled with anxiety as to what can go wrong, but rather what we can do right with the time we are given.

As long as the flame of life still burns, as long as we have been granted another day, life remains an extraordinary gift. Every moment is precious. Every day is an invitation to grow, learn, strengthen our relationship with Hashem, and become the people we are capable of becoming.

Our time in this world is finite. We are all, in a sense, ambassadors passing through. The question therefore is not how long we are given, but what we choose to do with the time we have.