Rabbi Yoel Gold

The Jigsaw Puzzle of Life

Years ago, I was shopping at a local Jewish supermarket in Los Angeles, where I live. As I was checking out, I suddenly heard someone calling my name. “Rabbi Gold! Rabbi Gold!” I turned around and saw a middle-aged woman approaching me. “Rabbi Gold,” she said, “I have a wonderful story for you.”

People often come over and share stories with me. I always tell my brother, who works in real estate, “Whatever a valuable piece of real estate is to you, a great true story is to me.” So I put down my shopping bags and gave her my full attention.

“My daughter was walking along La Brea Avenue,” she began, referring to one of the main thoroughfares in Los Angeles. “As she passed the Young Israel, she noticed a parking enforcement officer standing beside a car whose meter had expired. He was preparing to issue a ticket. She looked at the car. She looked at the officer. Then she looked at the Young Israel. She realized that the car probably belonged to someone inside davening Minchah. He could not simply leave in the middle of Shemoneh Esrei and run outside to feed the meter. So she hurried over to the officer and pleaded on the driver’s behalf.

“‘Officer,’ she said, ‘I think the owner of this car is inside praying. He cannot come out right now. Would you mind if I put a quarter into the meter for him?’ The officer was visibly impressed. ‘You’re in luck,’ he told her. ‘I haven’t printed the ticket yet.’ She placed a quarter into the meter, and the officer walked away.”

At that point, I thanked the woman. “What a beautiful story,” I said. “It reflects the extraordinary chinuch you invested in your daughter. Thank you so much for sharing it with me.”

I picked up my bags and began to leave. “Rabbi Gold,” she called after me, “where are you going?” I turned around. “What do you mean?” “The story isn’t over,” she said.

Her daughter had decided to wait and see whose car it was. After all, perhaps it belonged to someone eating at a restaurant down the block who had simply found a convenient parking space in front of the Young Israel. She waited ten minutes. Then the people began filing out after Minchah.

The woman looked at me and said, “Rabbi Gold, you will never believe whose car it was.” “Whose?” I asked.

“It was yours.”

It is remarkable how a story can suddenly become sensational when it becomes personal.

I immediately went to Coffee Bean, purchased a gift card, wrote the girl a thank-you note, and drove to her home to drop it off. On the way, I began thinking: who else in my life has been putting quarters into my meter, even when I was parked illegally, and I never even knew it? How many people have quietly protected me, advocated for me, supported me, and prevented me from receiving the “tickets” I may very well have deserved?

In this light, I would like to speak to the most important subject in your life. You may be thinking, “Rabbi Gold, who are you to tell me what the most important subject in my life is? What is it—and how could you possibly know?”

The Elusive Secret to Life

Let me share with you a remarkable study.

In 1938, researchers at Harvard University began one of the most ambitious studies ever conducted. They started following the lives of 724 young people from a broad range of social and economic backgrounds in the Boston area. The researchers visited their schools and homes. They monitored their behavior, listened to their conversations, observed their relationships, examined their health, tested their blood, scanned their brains, and documented the details of their lives. They repeated these evaluations year after year, for more than seventy-five years. The project ultimately spanned four generations of researchers.

Why did they do it? They wanted to discover what enables a person to remain happy, healthy, and fulfilled throughout life. After decades of observation and mountains of data, their conclusion could be summarized in just two words.

Good relationships.

The individuals who developed strong, healthy, and positive relationships throughout their lives were significantly happier and more fulfilled than those who did not. Do you know what I find fascinating?

It took Harvard more than seventy-five years, four generations of researchers, and thousands of pages of data to discover what Dovid HaMelech expressed in just a few words thousands of years ago (Tehillim 34:12): “Mi ha’ish hechafetz chaim—Who is the person who truly desires life?” Not merely existence, but “ohev yamim liros tov”—a person who loves his days, sees goodness in them, and experiences a life of meaning and fulfillment?

Dovid HaMelech answers: “Netzor leshoncha meira—Guard your tongue from speaking negatively about others. Usefasecha midaber mirmah—Be careful and honest in the way you speak to people. Bakesh shalom veradfeihu—Seek peace and actively pursue it.”

Dovid HaMelech understood long ago that the cornerstone of a happy and fulfilling life is the quality of our relationships. When I moved to Los Angeles, I quickly discovered that the city has an exceptionally strong health culture. My wife is from Los Angeles; I am originally from Brooklyn. After living there for a few months, I began shopping at a local health-food store.

Gradually, I became increasingly health-conscious. I eliminated sugar from my diet, and chocolate was gone and cake was gone. Junk food of every kind was gone. Then, one day, I decided to take my health journey to the next level.

I was going to start juicing. Every day, I would drink fresh green vegetable juice. I will never forget how excited I was. I ran to Best Buy and purchased the most expensive juicer on the shelf. Then I went to the local health-food store and bought the freshest, greenest, most organic vegetables I could find. I brought everything home and began juicing. I juiced at breakfast, at lunch and at supper. By the end of the day, I expected to feel healthy, vibrant, and overflowing with energy. Instead, I felt terribly ill. My stomach felt as though it were about to explode.

I turned to my wife and asked, “Why do I feel this way? I consumed so many vitamins and nutrients today!” She looked at me compassionately and said, “You know, I think it may be the juice.” “The juice?” I wondered incredulously.

There is a famous saying about marriage: in every relationship, one person is always right—and the other one is the husband.  As it turned out, my wife was correct. I had simply “over-juiced.”

As I lay in bed that night, I had what I like to call an “aha moment.” I realized that a person can possess the finest tools, the freshest ingredients, and the noblest intentions, but if he does not know how to use them effectively, he will never achieve the results he desires.

The same is true of relationships. You may be thinking, “We already know what Judaism teaches. Do not speak lashon hara. Practice hakaras hatov. Be kind. Be patient. Treat people properly.” We have heard about these virtues and ingredients throughout our lives.

But I do not want to address merely about knowing these values. I want to speak about applying them effectively. How do we translate them into our relationships bein adam lachaveiro—with our friends, our spouses, and our children?

I would like to share a few lessons I learned from a jigsaw puzzle.

Imagine two enormous jigsaw-puzzle pieces. One is blue, and the other is red. They are different colors, different shapes, and different sizes. I have come to view people in much the same way. Every person is different. We have different personalities, different temperaments, different sensitivities, different strengths, different histories, and different ways of seeing the world.

When we speak about building successful relationships, we must begin by embracing that reality. Our spouses are different from us, our children are different from us and our friends are different from us. Every person is a distinct piece of the larger puzzle—formed in a different shape, colored in a different shade, and designed to occupy a unique place. The first step toward building a meaningful relationship is not trying to make the other person more like us.

It is learning to understand, appreciate, and make room for who that person truly is.

Putting Together the Puzzle

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch offers a remarkable insight. He notes that the Hebrew word shav—meaning worthless or in vain—is closely related to the word shaveh, meaning equal or the same. Why should those two ideas be connected?

Because when something is merely a repetition of something else—when it contributes nothing distinct or original—it is, in a certain sense, shav. It is unnecessary. Hakadosh Baruch Hu does not create two people exactly alike. Why would He need two identical human beings? Every individual was created with a distinct personality, a unique combination of strengths, and a particular purpose that no one else can fulfill in precisely the same way.

In the haftarah of Parashas Vayechi, Dovid HaMelech speaks his final words to his son Shlomo: “Behold, I am going in the way of all the earth. Be strong, and become a man.” The Chasam Sofer asks a striking question. Why does Dovid HaMelech speak in a euphemism? Why does he not simply say, “I am about to die”? Why does he say, “I am going in the way of all the earth”?

The Chasam Sofer explains that death is the only time a person should simply follow the path taken by everyone else. Only then is he holech b’derech kol ha’aretz—traveling the universal road of all humanity. But as long as you are alive, breathing, and capable of acting, the message is: “V’chazakta v’hayisa l’ish— Be strong and become a man.” Become your own person. Do not spend your life merely copying someone else. You were created differently. You were given different strengths, different abilities, and a different mission.

My name is Yoely. I grew up Chassidish in Williamsburg, I learned in Litvishe yeshivos, I married a Sephardic woman, and I have served as the rabbi of a Yekkishe shul. Every part of that sentence is true. And I can tell you that if you were to ask each of those communities to summarize Yiddishkeit in two words, each might offer a completely different answer.

Ask my father, a Chassidishe Yid who wears a shtreimel, and he may tell you, “Tefillah and chesed.” Ask my chavrusa from the Litvishe yeshiva world, and he may answer, “Talmud Torah.” Ask my father-in-law, a proud Sephardic Jew, and he may say, “Emunah and bitachon.” Ask a Yekke, and he may tell you that everything depends upon punctuality. The entire world revolves around being on time. So who is right?

They are all right.

Each community emphasizes another dimension of Torah. Each contributes a different value, a different sensitivity, and a different strength to the Jewish people. Every person has a different tafkid. Every individual brings something to the world that another person cannot.

But that raises an important question. If we are all so different, how do we connect? How do people with different temperaments, strengths, backgrounds, and perspectives build meaningful relationships with one another?

Look closely at a jigsaw-puzzle piece. Every piece has protruding knobs. It also has empty spaces—openings or indentations into which another piece can fit. The protruding knobs symbolize the gifts, talents, and abilities that Hashem has given us. These are the qualities through which we stand out. Hashem says, as it were, “You will be gifted in this area. You will possess strength in that area. You will be able to contribute something that another person cannot.”

But every puzzle piece also contains openings. Those openings represent our chesronos—our limitations, vulnerabilities, and needs. One person may have one opening with a rough edge. Another person may have two openings but fewer rough edges. One person may be lacking in one area, while someone else struggles in an entirely different one. Every human being possesses maalos and chesronos, strengths and deficiencies. We simply have different strengths and different deficiencies.

So what are we meant to do with the knobs and the openings? That is where connection begins. I look at my family, my shul, or my community, and I recognize that something is missing. There is a need. There is an opening waiting to be filled. But instead of judging, criticizing, or standing at a distance and complaining about what is lacking, I look within myself.

I ask: what strength has Hashem given me that might fill this particular void? What ability do I possess that could address this need? Then I take the “knob” Hakadosh Baruch Hu gave me, place it into the corresponding opening, and connect.

That is the essence of a relationship. That is the essence of genuine connection. I see what you need. I recognize what I possess. And without judgment, superiority, or resentment, I apply my maalos to your chesronos. You, in turn, bring your strengths to the places where I am incomplete.

That is not an accident. That is how Hashem designed the world. We were not created to be identical. We were created to be interdependent. Our differences are not obstacles to connection. They are what make connection possible.

The Gerer Chassid and Israeli soldier

A few months ago, I received an email from a man named Mr. Alter.

He wrote that he had traveled to Europe with his family. A Gerer chassid, he had taken his wife and children to visit Poland and Warsaw. But the highlight of the entire journey was still ahead of them. Their final destination was Eretz Yisrael.

And, naturally, the pinnacle of their visit to Eretz Yisrael was the Kosel HaMa'aravi. When they arrived, they walked through the security checkpoint before entering the Kosel Plaza. Like everyone else, they placed their bags on the table for inspection while the soldiers examined them.

Suddenly, one of the chayalim called out loudly in Hebrew: "Shel mi ha'tik hazeh—Whose bag is this?" Mr. Alter turned around and realized it was his wife's handbag. He looked at her and asked, "What do you have in your bag?" She shrugged. "I honestly don't know. We've been traveling for two weeks. We've gone through airports and security checkpoints all across Europe, and no one has stopped me." "Don't worry,” Mr. Alter said. “I'll go speak to him." He walked over to the soldier and said, "It's my wife's bag. Is there a problem?"

The chayal reached into the bag, pulled out a bottle of Advil, smiled, and said, "I have a terrible toothache. Would it be possible to have a couple of these?" Mr. Alter told me that in that moment, something remarkable happened.

A Gerer chassid from abroad and an Israeli soldier standing guard at the Kosel suddenly felt like brothers. Not because they had engaged in a profound philosophical discussion, and not because they debated politics or ideology. Simply because one person had a need, and the other person was able to fill it. He handed the soldier a few Advil tablets, and in that small act of kindness, two Jews who had never met before were instantly connected.

That is all it takes. Connection begins the moment we recognize another person's need and ask ourselves, "What has HaKadosh Baruch Hu given me that can help fill that void?"

That is the essence of bein adam l'chaveiro.

Dovid HaMelech asks,

"Mi ha'ish hechafetz chaim? Ohev yamim liros tov—Who is the person who truly desires a life of happiness, fulfillment, and goodness? His answer is not complicated.

Asei tov. Bakesh shalom. Do good. Seek peace. Look around you. People are carrying invisible burdens. Some are struggling emotionally. Some are lonely. Some simply need someone to listen. Sometimes all it takes is a kind word or a listening ear. A phone call or a smile or an encouraging sentence. That is how relationships are built.

Rav Chaim of Volozhin writes that a person was not created to live only for himself. We were created for others. Like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, every one of us has different strengths and different needs.

The word shalom does not only mean peace. It also carries the idea of shleimus—wholeness and completion. We complete one another. We complete our families and our communities. And together, we complete the larger picture that Hashem intended when He created the world.

When we recognize the needs of our spouses, our children, our friends, and our communities—and respond by using the unique gifts Hashem has entrusted to us—we do far more than help another person.

We fulfill our own purpose as well.

The Call on American Airlines

Let me share with you one of my favorite stories. My cousin, Frank Mandel, told it to me.

Frank spent many years as a successful criminal defense attorney before retiring and transitioning into commercial real estate. Today he owns properties throughout the country.

One day, Frank was sitting on an American Airlines flight at Newark Airport with his business partner, Chaim Kaufman. The aircraft had already begun preparing for departure when the pilot came over the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, please turn off all electronic devices and prepare for takeoff." The moment Chaim heard the announcement, he reached into his pocket and said, "Frank, I have to make one last phone call." Frank looked at him and said, "Didn't you just hear the pilot? He told everyone to turn off their electronic devices."

"I know," Chaim replied, "but this call is really important." He reached into his pocket... then froze. His face turned white. "Oh no." He had left his phone at the charging station near the gate.

Now, for those of you who are younger, you understand exactly what that means. Your entire life lives inside that phone—your calendar, contacts, business meetings, presentations, travel plans—everything. Chaim looked at Frank and said, "Everything is on that phone. My presentations, my business contacts... what am I supposed to do?"

Just then, a flight attendant named Steve Cooley walked down the aisle. Chaim gently grabbed his sleeve. "Steve, I know it's too late for me to get off the plane, but could you please contact the gate? I left my phone at the charging station. Maybe they can at least place it in Lost and Found so I'll have a chance of getting it back when I return."

Steve smiled. "Hang on." He disappeared into the cockpit. Five minutes later, he returned. He walked over to Chaim...holding his phone. And the charger.

He handed them to him and said with a smile, "Please don't forget them again." Chaim stared at him in disbelief. "How did you get my phone? The plane is already moving!"

Steve said, "I'll tell you." "When the pilot heard that a passenger had forgotten his phone, he contacted Air Traffic Control. Air Traffic Control contacted the gate. And the gate agent sprinted to the charging station, grabbed your phone and charger, and then ran onto the tarmac. He spotted one of those catering trucks with the scissor lifts that service the aircraft. He flagged down the driver and said, 'Do you see that American Airlines flight taxiing toward the runway? One of the passengers left this behind. Can you get it to the pilot?'"

The truck driver immediately drove across the tarmac. He raised the scissor lift, the pilot opened the cockpit window, the phone and charger were tossed into the cockpit. The pilot handed them to me...and now I'm handing them to you.

I turned to Frank and asked, "Frank, were you flying business class?" He smiled. "Yes." I said, "Good. I just wanted to make sure nobody in economy starts expecting this."

Then Frank asked Chaim a simple question.

"You told me you needed to make one last phone call. If you hadn't remembered that call, you probably never would have realized your phone was missing until we landed. Who were you trying to call?"

Chaim became quiet.

"My elderly mother. I try to call her every single night before she goes to sleep just to wish her goodnight.”

"I realized I hadn't called her,” he continued. "So what lesson did you take from the story?" I asked Feank. "When you think about someone else,” he said, “remarkable things happen."

"That's a beautiful lesson,” I said, “but I have another one. Always fly American Airlines."

But the truth is, there is an even deeper lesson. Think about how many people became involved simply to return one forgotten phone.

The pilot. The flight attendant. The air traffic controller. The gate agent. The truck driver. Five complete strangers. None of them knew Chaim Kaufman. None of them were obligated to help him. Yet each person did his part.

One person alone could not have returned that phone. But when five individuals each contributed the unique role only they could play, something seemingly impossible became possible.

That is exactly how Hakadosh Baruch Hu designed the world. Each of us is one piece of the puzzle. Alone, we accomplish only so much. But when every person contributes the unique strength Hashem entrusted to him, we become capable of achieving far more together than any one of us ever could alone.

Power in Peace

As I reflected on that story, I was reminded of a remarkable Pasuk in Parshas Bechukosai.

The Torah says, “Five of you will pursue one hundred” (Vayikra 26:8). The Ohr HaChaim Hakadosh asks an obvious question. How is that possible? Five people defeating one hundred? It defies logic. It simply doesn't make sense. The Ohr HaChaim answers that the key lies in the preceding verse.

Just beforehand, the Torah says, “I will place peace in the land." What does that have to do with military victory?

Everything.

The Ohr HaChaim explains that when there is shalom—when people know how to work together despite their differences—then extraordinary things become possible. One person may speak Yiddish. Another Hebrew. Another English. One may be analytical and another compassionate. One leads, another organizes and a third inspires. They come with different backgrounds, different personalities, and different strengths.

But when every individual contributes his unique gift toward a common purpose, then five people can accomplish what should have required one hundred. That is the power of shalom.

Too often, we judge people because they are different from us. The Torah asks us to do the opposite. Recognize that Hashem intentionally created every person differently. Each of us has maalos and each of us has chesronos. Connection occurs when I use my strengths to fill your deficiencies, and you use your strengths to fill mine.

That is shalom. Shalom comes from the word shleimus—wholeness, completeness. Together, we become greater than we could ever be alone.

Let me conclude with one final story.

When my wife and I were expecting our first child, I received a phone call from her family.

My wife comes from a Sephardic family, and among many Sephardim there is a beautiful custom to name a grandson after his living grandfather. Among Ashkenazim, and certainly among Chassidim, that is generally not the custom. So here I was, caught between two cherished traditions. On the one hand, I deeply wanted to honor my wife's family. On the other hand, I wanted to remain faithful to my own family's minhag.

I wasn't sure what to do. I spoke with my father-in-law, one of the sweetest Jews you could ever meet, and I said,

"Abba, let's do what Jews have always done when we don't know the answer. Let's ask a gadol."

At the time, we were living in Eretz Yisrael, so we traveled to Bnei Brak to ask Rav Chaim Kanievsky. I presented the question.

"K’vod HaRav, my wife is expecting. The doctors tell us it's going to be a boy, and we are uncertain how to proceed with the naming." To my surprise, Rav Chaim smiled. I had almost never seen him laugh. In Yiddish he replied, “And perhaps it will be a girl." At that moment I became even more nervous. I wanted a boy, and the doctors had confidently predicted a boy. Now Rav Chaim was suggesting it might be a girl! In retrospect, I realized that Rav Chaim simply did not want to answer a question that had not yet become relevant.

First let the baby be born. Then we could discuss names.

Baruch Hashem, our son was born. By then I had heard that Rav Chaim had ruled differently in another similar case, so instead of returning, I consulted another rav.

He smiled and said, "Why don't you simply add another name?" I thought to myself, "Now that's a rabbi after my own heart."

So I took what seemed to be the path of peace. I named my son Yosef, after my father-in-law, and added another name after a departed grandfather. His name became Yosef Chaim. When the Sephardim ask whom he is named after, I say, "The Ben Ish Chai." When the Ashkenazim ask, I say, "Rav Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld."

Everyone is happy. And sometimes, that is exactly what shalom looks like.

Rav Asher Arieli’s Question

By the way, a few years later I purchased the Bar-Ilan Responsa Project, which has a fascinating feature. You can type in a person's name and it tells you if the numerical value of that name corresponds to a Pasuk in Tanach.

One day I turned to my wife and said, "Let's try something."

"What?"

"Let's type in both of our names together—Yoe and Rachel—and see what happens.” She laughed and said, "Why not?" We entered the names.

To our amazement, the combined gematria corresponded exactly to the Pasuk: “Hinei bincha Yosef ba eilecha—Behold, your son Yosef is coming to you" (Bereishis 25:48). We looked at each other and thought, Maybe we made the right decision after all. Not long afterward, I was eating Friday-night seudah at the home of my rebbi, Rav Asher Arieli.

He asked me, "What's your son's name?" I answered, "Yosef Chaim," and I told him the entire story—our different family customs, our visit to Rav Chaim Kanievsky, and how we ultimately resolved the question.

When I finished, Rav Asher became very thoughtful. Then he said, "Let me tell you a story."

"When my wife was expecting our first child, the pregnancy was very difficult. The doctors weren't certain whether we would ever have another child. It was going to be a boy. I wanted to name him after my father, but my wife wanted to name him after her father." Her father was Rav Nochum Partzovitz, the son-in-law of Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz. With so much uncertainty about the future, they did not know if another opportunity would ever come.

"I went to ask Rav Elyashiv,” Rav Nochum said. He presented the question. Rav Elyashiv immediately answered, "What do you mean? The halachah is explicit. The Shulchan Aruch teaches that honoring one's father takes precedence over honoring one's father-in-law. You should name the child after your father."

Case closed. But then Rav Asher said something that I have never forgotten. He looked at Rav Elyashiv and said, "Rebbe... I know what the Shulchan Aruch says. I didn't come because I don't know the halachah. I came because I want to give my wife this gift. I want to be mevater. My only concern is whether I am permitted to do so without violating the Shulchan Aruch."

That, to me, is extraordinary. He already possessed the strongest argument imaginable. He had the halachah on his side.

He could have gone home, opened the Shulchan Aruch, and said, "Look, the halachah agrees with me. End of discussion." Perhaps there would have been "peace." But it would have been the kind of peace that exists only because one person surrendered.

That is not the shalom the Torah envisions. Instead, Rav Asher wanted something much greater. He saw that his wife had a need and he recognized that he had the ability to fill it. His instinct was not, "How can I win?" but, "How can I give?" He had a piece of the puzzle that he can offer to her. And all he wanted to know was whether the Torah would permit him to connect those two pieces. To me, that is one of the most beautiful lessons about relationships I have ever heard.

I would like to leave you with just one question. Do you know what the protruding piece of your puzzle is in your marriage, in your family and with your children? Have you identified the unique strengths, talents, and gifts that Hakadosh Baruch Hu has entrusted specifically to you? And when you look at the people you love, do you notice their empty spaces? Do you see their needs with compassion rather than criticism? And do you have the courage to use your strengths to fill those spaces?

Because that is where relationships are built. That is where connection begins. And that is where shalom is found.

May Hakadosh Baruch Hu help each and every one of us to become people who bring peace, wholeness, and completion into the lives of those around us. May we merit to experience true peace in our homes, in our communities, and throughout Klal Yisrael.

And may we soon welcome Mashiach, speedily in our times.