Rabbi Shraga Kallus

Yeshiva Bachurim and Shidduchim

Most discussions on the subject of shidduchim tend to focus on the practical aspects of finding a shidduch, and those discussions are certainly important. However, I would like to approach the subject from a somewhat different perspective.

We know that the Brisker Rav maintained a particularly strong position regarding hishtadlus in shidduchim. According to the view attributed to him, finding one's bashert requires no hishtadlus whatsoever. A shidduch is entirely determined by Heaven. There are different versions of precisely how the Brisker Rav expressed this position. Some relate that he maintained that one should merely go through the motions of hishtadlus without believing that these efforts actually accomplish anything. Others explain that the purpose of such activity is simply to put a person's mind at ease, allowing him to feel that he is doing something. Still others suggest that one must at least create the appearance of making an effort.

The Chazon Ish is likewise quoted as having said that the one area in which the Ribbono Shel Olam does not conceal His involvement is shidduchim. In virtually every other area of life, Hashem's providence operates behind the veil of hester panim. In shidduchim, however, His hand is often unmistakably apparent. When we consider the extraordinary circumstances through which two particular individuals are brought together, the workings of Hashgachah become remarkably clear.

Nevertheless, there are numerous indications throughout Chazal that shidduchim do require some measure of hishtadlus. Of course, the Brisker Rav was undoubtedly familiar with these sources, and I cannot claim to know how he reconciled them with his position. Moreover, we do not necessarily possess a definitive account of his precise formulation. What does seem clear, however, is that Chazal recognize a legitimate place for human effort in the pursuit of marriage.

Consider the principle of shema yekadmenu acher, the concern that another person might precede someone in securing a particular shidduch. The Gemara (Moed Katan 18b) invokes this consideration in explaining why certain steps toward marriage are permitted even during periods when joyous activities are otherwise restricted. The Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 551:2) likewise addresses this principle in the halachos of Tishah B'Av, while the Gemara in Moed Katan discusses its application to Chol HaMoed, notwithstanding the prohibition against me'arvin simchah b'simchah, combining one joyous occasion with another.

At first glance, this seems difficult to understand. If a person's bashert has already been determined in Heaven, how could another individual possibly precede him? Nobody can take away what Hashem has designated for someone else. Yet the very fact that Chazal express this concern suggests that there is some meaningful role for hishtadlus.

Indeed, the Abarbanel, in his commentary on Parshas Chayei Sarah, identifies numerous differences between the way Eliezer originally experienced the events surrounding his search for a wife for Yitzchak and the way he subsequently recounted those events to Rivkah's family. He identifies over ten differences. Eliezer carefully adapted his presentation, recognizing that certain details, if communicated differently, might influence the outcome. In a sense, Eliezer was teaching us something about the delicate art of shadchanus. He understood that even when pursuing a match ordained by Heaven, one must exercise wisdom, sensitivity, and sound judgment.

One might suggest that the concern of shema yekadmenu acher refers not to ordinary human effort, but rather to the possibility that another person's tefillos could alter the outcome (see Yerushalmi, Taanis 4:6). Perhaps the shidduch is indeed predetermined, and conventional hishtadlus cannot change it, but sincere tefillah can. Yet even according to this explanation, tefillah itself constitutes a form of hishtadlus, and perhaps its most important form.

I would suggest, however, that for many bachurim, the primary hishtadlus is something even more fundamental: preparing yourselves to become worthy of marriage. It means developing the character, maturity, and ruchniyus qualities necessary to build a genuine bayis ne'eman b'Yisrael. It means becoming a person who is truly ra'ui, someone prepared to assume the responsibilities and embrace the opportunities of married life.

Alongside this preparation stands the extraordinary power of tefillah. The Gemara (Berachos 8a) teaches, "Al zos yispallel kol chasid eilecha l'eis metzo", that every pious person should pray to Hashem concerning an eis metzo. Chazal interpret this expression as referring, among other things, to finding a wife.

The Pele Yoetz offers a remarkable practical instruction. He writes that parents should begin teaching their daughters to daven for their future shidduch from the time they are capable of reading and writing. In our times, that might mean approximately six or seven years old. His recommendation is that a parent write out an appropriate tefillah for his daughter, which she should then recite each day. Imagine that. Long before marriage becomes an immediate consideration, a young girl is already being taught to turn to Hashem and ask for the privilege of finding the right husband.

Clearly, then, tefillah occupies a central place in preparing for marriage.

At the same time, we must understand what it means to believe in bashert. There is a fundamental lesson in emunah that I believe every person must internalize. When someone finds a parking space at precisely the right moment, he enthusiastically declares, "It was bashert!" But the real test of emunah comes when he does not find the parking space. That, too, is bashert. Hashgacha Pratis is not merely an explanation for the occasions when life unfolds according to our preferences. It is the recognition that Hashem guides our lives even when circumstances seem disappointing, frustrating, or incomprehensible.

These are the years in which a bachur must cultivate that emunah. Every person will eventually encounter difficult situations in life, chas v'shalom, and the strength to navigate those experiences begins with the convictions he develops now.

Of course, hishtadlus must always remain within the boundaries of Torah and sound judgment. It should never become an obsession or a source of unnecessary anxiety. But the very fact that you are thinking seriously about marriage before you have entered shidduchim, is itself a meaningful form of preparation. I would venture to suggest that even the Brisker Rav would agree that this kind of hishtadlus is indispensable.

The Transformative Power of Tefillah

There is another remarkable dimension to this subject: the relationship between mazal, bashert, and tefillah.

The Gemara (Sotah 2a) teaches that forty days before the formation of a child, a heavenly proclamation announces the person whom that child is destined to marry. The very thought is extraordinary. Somewhere in the world, there is another individual whose life is destined to become intertwined with yours. Long before you have met, long before either of you has even begun contemplating marriage, the Ribbono Shel Olam has already established that connection. Yet we also know that tefillah possesses the extraordinary power to change even what appears to be a person's predetermined destiny.

Consider Leah Imeinu. Chazal (Bava Basra 123a) tell us that Leah was originally destined to marry Eisav. That was her mazal. The Maharal (Nesivos Olam, Nesiv HaTznius, ch.1) explains that changing one's mazal is even more difficult than changing the natural order of creation. And yet Leah, through the extraordinary intensity of her tefillos, succeeded in changing her destiny. Instead of becoming the wife of Eisav, she merited becoming one of the Imahos of Klal Yisrael. A person may speak about bashert, about mazal, and about everything having been decreed in Heaven. All of that is true. Nevertheless, tefillah has the power to accomplish what would otherwise seem impossible.

And there is another point that every bachur must appreciate: the tefillah of the person who is himself experiencing a particular situation possesses a unique strength.

We find a fascinating illustration of this in last week's Parsha. Avraham Avinu, the great pillar of tefillah, pleaded with Hashem on behalf of Sodom. He davened repeatedly, attempting to secure the city's salvation, yet his tefillos did not succeed in preventing its destruction. Lot, however, while fleeing Sedom, requested that the small city of Tzoar be spared, and his request was granted. How could Lot accomplish something that Avraham Avinu seemingly could not?

One possibility is that Lot was personally immersed in the matzav (situation). He was experiencing the danger firsthand, and his tefillah emerged from the immediacy of his own circumstances. There is a particular power in the prayers of someone who is himself confronting the challenge. Of course, another possibility is that Lot's prayers were effective precisely because they were preceded by the tefillos of Avraham Avinu. Perhaps Avraham had already prepared the spiritual foundation, and Lot's request brought those earlier prayers to fruition.

Both possibilities contain important lessons. Certainly, there is tremendous value in having parents, grandparents, and great tzaddikim daven on one's behalf. There is nothing wrong with approaching a gadol and asking him to remember you in his tefillos. But a bachur must never underestimate the power of his own tefillah. His personal connection with the Ribbono Shel Olam is not something that can simply be delegated to others.

There is, however, an important qualification regarding how one should daven for a shidduch.

The Gemara (Moed Katan 18b) relates that Rava cautioned against praying specifically to marry a particular woman. Why? Because tefillah is real. It is not a symbolic exercise or an empty expression of religious sentiment. Tefillah actually accomplishes something. A person may indeed succeed in obtaining what he so desperately desires, only to discover that it was not truly what was best for him. The Gemara illustrates the danger of becoming fixated upon a particular outcome. Accordingly, one should daven to merit the right spouse, the person who will genuinely be best suited for him, rather than insisting that Hashem grant him one particular individual.

Marriage Through the Lens of Eternity

I would like to turn now to something more fundamental, something that concerns every bachur here, whether or not he is currently involved in shidduchim.

And for that, we must return to this week's Parsha.

Chazal and our great mefarshim have always looked to the Torah for guidance concerning the most important decisions in life. When it comes to shidduchim, Parashas Chayei Sarah provides an especially profound foundation.

But the Parsha begins in a rather unexpected place.

Before the Torah introduces Eliezer's search for Rivkah, before we encounter the extraordinary events surrounding the formation of Yitzchak's marriage, we are presented with the lengthy account of Avraham Avinu's purchase of Me'aras HaMachpelah.

Avraham approaches the Bnei Cheis to secure a burial place for Sarah Imeinu. He negotiates with Efron, discusses the purchase of the property, and ultimately acquires the burial site. The Torah devotes an extraordinary amount of attention to this transaction, recording details that might initially appear unnecessary.

Yet we know that every word of the Torah is precious. Every letter contains immeasurable significance. Why, then, does the Torah devote so much space to the purchase of a burial plot? And why does this account immediately precede the lengthy narrative of Yitzchak's shidduch?

To appreciate the answer, we must first consider something remarkable about the life of Avraham Avinu.

Avraham is our Av, our teacher, our spiritual ancestor, and the founding figure of Klal Yisrael. His accomplishments transformed the course of human history. Yet when we examine the actual narrative of the Torah, we discover that virtually everything we are told about Avraham's life and achievements takes place within the framework of his marriage to Sarah Imeinu.

We know from the Midrashim about Avraham's extraordinary childhood, his search for the Creator, his recognition of Hashem at a young age, and his willingness to be cast into the fiery furnace rather than abandon his faith. These are among the most celebrated episodes in his life. But the Torah itself does not recount them explicitly.

On the level of pshat, our introduction to Avraham's life is already bound up with his marriage to Sarah. From that point onward, the Torah presents his ruchniyus achievements, his nisyonos, his acts of chesed, and his encounters with Hashem within the context of the home he established together with Sarah Imeinu. And what is particularly striking is that the final substantial narrative concerning Avraham's life likewise revolves around marriage and family.

Avraham lived to the age of 175. Yet the events surrounding Sarah's passing and Yitzchak's marriage occurred when Avraham was approximately 140 years old, some thirty-five years before his own passing. Following these events, the Torah tells us that Avraham married again, but provides comparatively little additional narrative concerning those final decades.

What is the Torah teaching us?

It is teaching us that marriage is not merely another chapter in a person's life. It is not simply one milestone among the many accomplishments a person hopes to achieve. Rather, the establishment of a Jewish home is central to the very purpose of a person's existence. Avraham Avinu's greatness was not confined to his individual ruchniyus achievements. It was expressed through the bayis he built, the family he established, and the generations that would emerge from that home.

This helps us appreciate the extraordinary significance of the mitzvah of peru u'revu. Marriage is not simply a personal aspiration or a means of companionship. It is intimately connected with the fulfillment of one's purpose in this world. In fact, the Gemara (Shabbos 31a) teaches that among the questions a person is asked when he comes before the Heavenly Court is whether he occupied himself with periyah v'riviyah. This is not merely an inquiry into whether he fulfilled a particular obligation. It reflects the central place that building a family occupies in the broader mission of human life.

Choosing a Partner for the Person You Will Become

But I believe there is an even deeper lesson embedded in the opening of our Parsha, and it is something that every bachur must understand before he begins shidduchim.

The Torah is conveying a yesod gadol, a foundational principle that may be among the most important lessons a young man can ever hear about marriage.

When a bachur begins considering a shidduch, he naturally asks himself whether a particular young woman is suitable for him. Does she possess the qualities he admires? Is there compatibility? Does he find her attractive? Do their personalities complement one another? Are their spiritual aspirations aligned? Are their expectations regarding lifestyle and finances compatible?

These are legitimate considerations, and they certainly have their place. But there is a fundamental mistake that a person can make in approaching these questions.

He may evaluate a potential spouse exclusively through the lens of who he is at twenty-three years old.

He asks whether this young woman is suitable for his present personality, his current preferences, his immediate needs, and the particular stage of life in which he presently finds himself. He considers what appeals to him physically, emotionally, spiritually, and financially at this moment. But marriage is not intended merely to satisfy the needs of a twenty-three-year-old young man. Marriage is intended to accompany a person throughout the entirety of his existence, to help him grow into the individual he is ultimately meant to become.

And that brings us back to Me'aras HaMachpelah.

The Torah begins the narrative of Yitzchak's shidduch by directing our attention to the final resting place of Avraham and Sarah. Before teaching us how to choose a spouse, the Torah reminds us of the ultimate destination toward which marriage is meant to lead.

We are not simply discussing the person with whom one hopes to spend the next few years, or even the next several decades. We are discussing the person with whom one hopes to build an eternal bond, a relationship whose ultimate significance extends beyond this world and into Olam HaBa.

That is the perspective with which a bachur must approach marriage.

The essential question is not merely, "Is this young woman right for me as I am today?" The deeper question is, "Is this the person with whom I can build the life that Hashem expects of me? Is this someone who can help me become the person I am meant to be, and whom I, in turn, can help achieve her own shleimus?" We are not merely choosing a companion for the present. We are choosing a partner in the lifelong pursuit of shleimus, someone with whom we hope to build a home rooted in Torah, avodas Hashem, and the values that endure for eternity. This is the profound connection between Me'aras HaMachpelah and the shidduch of Yitzchak and Rivkah.

The Torah places the destination before the beginning, teaching us that we cannot properly understand the purpose of marriage unless we first appreciate where marriage is ultimately meant to lead. And that is something worth contemplating long before the first shidduch is ever suggested.

The Importance of Knowing Yourself

Now, the actual considerations involved in choosing a shidduch will naturally differ from one person to another. There are bachurim at many different levels of ruchniyus development. Some are holding here, others are holding there, and still others are somewhere in between. It would therefore be inappropriate to prescribe one universal list of qualities that every bachur must seek in a wife.

I could tell you to look for a young woman who is a ba'alas chesed. But what does that mean? Are you yourself a giving person? Do you genuinely appreciate chesed? I could tell you to seek someone who possesses a profound chashivus haTorah and ahavas haTorah. But do you yourself possess those qualities? And if so, to what extent? Perhaps you have developed them considerably, or perhaps you are only beginning.

A person must be honest about where he is holding. If a bachur has not yet developed proper middos or a genuine appreciation for Torah, what purpose would be served by insisting that he marry a young woman whose entire life revolves around those ideals, when he himself does not share them? That is not necessarily a recipe for a successful marriage.

Therefore, I want to address this subject on a level that every person here can understand, regardless of his present spiritual standing.

Marriage is fundamentally a matter of ruchniyus. It is one of the most consequential steps a person will ever take in his spiritual journey. Me'aras HaMachpelah represents the bridge between this world and the Next, reminding us that marriage is not merely about building a comfortable life together. It is about building a life whose significance extends into eternity.

Of course, this does not mean that every bachur must marry someone of an entirely different spiritual caliber. It means that he must first understand the seriousness of the decision and the direction in which he wants his life to develop.

And that brings us to a very practical question.

A bachur who is eighteen, nineteen, twenty, or twenty-one years old, even if he is not yet involved in shidduchim, must begin thinking seriously about his future. Imagine an eighteen-year-old young man who suddenly inherits an enormous fortune. He is informed that he must now make a series of investment decisions, perhaps establishing a family fund or placing his inheritance into long-term investments, and that the financial security of his entire life will depend upon the choices he makes today.

What an overwhelming responsibility! Here is a young man, barely out of childhood, being asked to make decisions that will affect him for the next sixty or seventy years. Even if he inherited billions of dollars, the responsibility of managing that wealth wisely would be enormous. But marriage is infinitely more consequential. And therefore, regardless of where a bachur is presently holding, he must appreciate that these matters are profoundly real. They are not distant abstractions to be considered only when the first shidduch is suggested. They demand serious thought and preparation long beforehand.

Marriage is serious. Spiritually, it is extraordinarily serious. And that means that a bachur must begin by developing an honest understanding of himself.

Perhaps a twenty-three-year-old bachur who is already involved in shidduchim has waited a little too long to begin this process. But a twenty-one- or twenty-two-year-old who has not yet entered shidduchim has an invaluable opportunity. He can begin asking himself the questions that will ultimately determine the direction of his life.

Who am I? What do I value? What kind of person do I want to become? What do I hope to accomplish? And what kind of home do I want to establish? Unfortunately, there are many bachurim who spend these years simply coasting. I am not speaking about those who are struggling seriously or whose lives have become something of a roller coaster. I am speaking about perfectly respectable bachurim who are doing what everyone around them is doing. They attend seder, they learn, they follow the routine of the yeshiva, and everything appears to be proceeding normally. But they have no clearly defined goals. They are moving through life without consciously deciding where they want to go.

And that is something that must change.

By the age of twenty-one or twenty-two, a bachur should already be developing meaningful life goals. He does not need to have every detail of his future mapped out, but he must have some sense of direction. He must begin to understand what matters to him and what he wants his life to represent.

There is an interesting halachic consideration that illustrates the seriousness with which we treat major life decisions. Halachah places certain restrictions upon a young person's ability to sell inherited real estate before the age of twenty (see Bava Basra 155a–156a; Shulchan Aruch, Choshen Mishpat 235:9). Why? Because the sale of land is a significant financial decision, and a young person may not yet possess the maturity and judgment necessary to appreciate its long-term consequences.

A young child, of course, lacks the requisite da'as to perform certain legal transactions (Gittin 65a). But even after reaching the age of bar mitzvah, there are circumstances in which Halachah recognizes that a person may not yet be sufficiently mature to make certain consequential financial decisions independently. Yet a young man can marry at eighteen (Avos 5:21).

How are we to understand this apparent contradiction? If a young man is considered too inexperienced to sell a piece of real estate, how can he be entrusted with a decision as consequential as marriage?

The answer is that he is not expected to navigate the process entirely on his own. He is meant to have guidance. He is meant to have parents, rabbeim, and other responsible individuals who can help him evaluate the considerations involved and make an informed decision.

And we see this very principle in this week's Parsha.

People sometimes refer to Eliezer as the first shadchan. But that is not entirely accurate. First of all, the Ribbono Shel Olam Himself was the first Shadchan. More importantly, Eliezer was hardly the model of an impartial matchmaker.

Quite the contrary. Eliezer was perhaps the most one-sided shadchan imaginable.

Throughout the narrative, he repeatedly emphasizes, "Eved Avraham anochi—I am the servant of Avraham." His loyalty is entirely to Avraham and Yitzchak. He is not presenting himself as an independent intermediary whose responsibility is to consider both sides equally. His mission is to secure the best possible wife for Yitzchak. If you ever encounter a shadchan who is concerned exclusively with the interests of one side, you would be well advised to exercise considerable caution!

But the deeper lesson of Eliezer's involvement is something else entirely. Avraham Avinu understood the importance of obtaining assistance.

Here was Avraham, one of the greatest individuals ever to walk the face of the earth, a man of extraordinary wisdom, spiritual greatness, and discernment. Yet when it came time to find a wife for Yitzchak, he entrusted the mission to someone else. He recognized that even a person of his stature could benefit from the involvement of another individual.

Sometimes parents feel inadequate because they do not know how to investigate a particular shidduch, how to conduct the necessary inquiries, or how to evaluate the information they receive. But there is no deficiency in seeking help. Even Avraham Avinu did not undertake every aspect of the process personally. The essential point is that a young person is meant to have guidance when making such an important decision.

Nevertheless, that guidance cannot replace the responsibility he has to prepare himself. Before others can help him determine whom he should marry, he must begin to understand who he is. And that requires goals.

The Power of a Shared Purpose

One of the most important principles in marriage is the power of a shared purpose. Husband and wife will inevitably have differences. They will have different personalities, preferences, habits, and perspectives. Some of those differences may be relatively minor, while others may require considerable patience and accommodation. But when two people share a clear and meaningful goal, they can often navigate those differences far more successfully. In fact, the goal itself does not necessarily have to be ruchniyus for us to appreciate the psychological principle involved.

Imagine a husband and wife whose overriding ambition is to become wealthy. That is what they both want. Their shared objective is to accumulate as much money as possible.

Now, suppose the husband works extraordinarily long hours. He comes home late at night, travels frequently, and sometimes spends weeks away from home. Perhaps he is occasionally irritable or less attentive than he ought to be. His wife may nevertheless tolerate these difficulties because she understands them within the context of their shared objective. They both want to become wealthy, and she regards these sacrifices as part of the price they have agreed to pay.

Whether that is a worthwhile goal is an entirely different question. I am not presently discussing the merits of such a lifestyle. My point is simply that a shared purpose gives a marriage a sense of direction and helps a couple make sense of the sacrifices required along the way.

Now, for a ben Torah, the aspiration should obviously be something far more elevated. A bachur may say, "I want to build a home in which Torah is central. I want to continue learning, to grow in avodas Hashem, and to establish a family whose values are rooted in Torah." That is a meaningful goal. But he must then seek a young woman who genuinely shares that aspiration. Not merely someone who is willing to accommodate his ambitions, but someone who appreciates the same vision and wants to participate in building that kind of home.

When the goal is clear, the shidduch process itself becomes clearer.

The question is no longer simply whether two people enjoy one another's company or whether their personalities seem compatible. The question becomes whether they are moving in the same direction. And when husband and wife share that direction, their marriage possesses an inner strength that enables them to withstand many of the difficulties that inevitably arise.

There is a beautiful illustration of this principle in the marriage of Rav Nosson Tzvi Finkel zt”l, the Rosh Yeshiva of Mir.

As I understand it, Rav Nosson Tzvi was not particularly fluent in Hebrew when he married, while his Rebbetzin was not particularly fluent in English. They came from different linguistic backgrounds, and their ability to communicate in one another's native language was initially limited. Of course, there was some Yiddish. As many of us know, one can sometimes manage with a little Yiddish, a few familiar expressions, and a generous amount of farshteist? But that hardly constitutes the foundation of effortless communication! How, then, did their marriage flourish?

The Rebbetzin reportedly explained that they did, in fact, speak the same language.

They spoke the language of Torah.

Their shared values, aspirations, and devotion to Torah created a bond that transcended their linguistic differences. They understood one another because they understood what mattered most to each other. And the rest, as they say, is history.

That is the extraordinary power of a common goal.

The same principle can operate in marriages built around less elevated ambitions. Two people may come from entirely different backgrounds, speak different languages, and possess very different personalities, yet find common ground because they are united by a particular pursuit. But for a ben Torah, the ultimate shared purpose should be the establishment of a home dedicated to Torah and avodas Hashem. And when that purpose is genuinely shared, it can become the foundation of an extraordinarily strong marriage.

Nevertheless, all of this depends upon something that must come first: clarity about oneself. A bachur must know what he wants from life before he can reasonably expect to identify the person with whom he should build that life.

And here we arrive at one of the most serious problems confronting young couples today.

There are bachurim who enter marriage with every intention of continuing to learn. Some envision many years of full-time learning. Others hope to remain in kollel for several years before eventually pursuing a livelihood. Still others anticipate a shorter period of learning before entering the workforce. There is a broad spectrum of legitimate aspirations and circumstances, and different people are suited to different paths.

At one end of that spectrum is the bachur who genuinely aspires to devote many years to intensive Torah study. This is not merely something he feels he ought to want. It is his deepest ambition, and he is prepared to make substantial sacrifices to pursue it. At the other end is the bachur who recognizes that extended full-time learning is not his particular path. He may wish to spend a limited period in kollel and then begin working, while continuing to maintain a serious commitment to Torah and mitzvos.

There is no reason to disparage such a person. Every individual must understand his own abilities, circumstances, and responsibilities. The Torah itself recognizes the obligation to provide for one's family, and not every person is destined to follow precisely the same course.

The difficulty arises when a bachur enters marriage without genuine clarity about which path he intends to pursue, or when the young woman he marries has expectations that do not correspond to his own. And that is where some of the most painful and avoidable difficulties in marriage begin.

When Spiritual Aspirations Diverge

A bachur gets married, and everything initially seems wonderful. But after several months, perhaps a year or two, he begins to discover that he and his wife are not holding in the same place spiritually.

I am going to address this primarily from the perspective of the husband, because that is the particular situation I want to examine. There are certainly parallel difficulties that arise from the wife's perspective, but that is a separate discussion.

Imagine a young man learning in kollel, perhaps even in Eretz Yisrael. He is genuinely shteiging. His learning is developing, his avodas Hashem is deepening, and he is growing steadily in his appreciation for Torah and ruchniyus. He is moving from one level to the next, constantly striving to become a greater ben Torah.

But his wife is not moving in that direction.

Somehow, during the shidduch process, they met, went out together, and everything appeared compatible. Yet now, after marriage, they discover that their ruchniyus aspirations are fundamentally different. They are simply not holding in the same place. And as time passes, the distance between them grows. He continues to develop in one direction, while she remains elsewhere. What initially seemed like a relatively minor difference gradually becomes a serious divide. Eventually, he may find himself occupying an entirely different spiritual world from his wife.

And that is a terribly difficult situation.

A person can reach the point where he begins wondering whether he should compromise his own aspirations for the sake of the marriage, or whether he should simply accept that they will never share the same spiritual outlook. He may begin worrying about the kind of home they will establish and the values they will eventually transmit to their children. Who wants to find himself in such a predicament? And the question that troubles me more than almost anything else is: how does this happen? How does a serious ben Torah, who genuinely wants to build a home centered around Torah, marry someone whose spiritual aspirations are so different from his own?

This is a very serious problem. But let me explain something important.

I rarely encounter a young man who calls me a year after his wedding and says, "I simply cannot understand what happened. I am not attracted to my wife. I do not find her physically appealing. How did I end up marrying someone I am not attracted to?" That is not the kind of complaint I commonly hear.

Of course, questions about physical attraction arise during shidduchim. A bachur may be uncertain whether he finds a particular young woman attractive enough to marry. There are important guidelines for navigating those questions, and perhaps we will discuss them toward the end of the evening. But it is unusual for a young man to marry someone he finds attractive and then, a year later, suddenly discover that he never found her attractive in the first place.

On the other hand, I do encounter situations in which a husband is learning seriously, growing in ruchniyus, and becoming increasingly devoted to Torah, while his wife seems to have little interest in that world. He finds himself bewildered, frustrated, and uncertain about what to do. That happens far too often.

Why the difference? The answer, I believe, is remarkably simple.

When it came to physical attraction, the bachur knew what mattered to him. He understood that he needed to marry someone he found attractive. And I want to emphasize that there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Physical attraction is an important component of marriage. I am not suggesting that a bachur should disregard it, minimize it, or pretend that it does not matter. Quite the contrary. A man must marry someone to whom he is genuinely attracted.

But here is the essential point: he had clarity. He knew what he found attractive and what he did not. He understood his own preferences, recognized the importance of the matter, and made sure that this consideration was adequately addressed before proceeding with the shidduch. Because the issue was clear to him, he was able to evaluate it properly.

And once he entered marriage, the natural development of affection and emotional closeness only deepened that attraction. Indeed, one of the beautiful dimensions of marriage is that genuine love gradually transforms the way husband and wife perceive one another. Imperfections that might once have seemed noticeable become increasingly insignificant.

A husband who has spent decades building a loving marriage should still see beauty in his wife when she is ninety-three years old, wrinkles and all. His appreciation for her is no longer confined to the superficial standards of physical appearance. It has become intertwined with the affection, attachment, and shared life they have developed together. That is part of the beauty of the relationship Hashem intended marriage to become.

But why was physical attraction something the bachur could evaluate with relative clarity, while spiritual compatibility became a source of painful confusion after marriage? Because he understood himself in one area, but not necessarily in the other.

He knew what he wanted physically. He had thought about it, understood its importance, and developed a reasonably clear sense of what would be suitable for him. But had he developed the same clarity regarding his ruchniyus aspirations? Did he genuinely understand what kind of Torah life he wanted to build? Did he appreciate how central learning would be to his identity? Did he recognize the importance of marrying someone who shared his vision of ruchniyus? Or had he simply assumed that these matters would somehow work themselves out?

A bachur who possesses genuine clarity about his ruchniyus should be able to recognize fundamental differences in those areas just as clearly as he recognizes whether he is physically attracted to someone. If Torah is truly central to his life, if he knows that he wants to devote his life to learning and avodas Hashem, and if he understands that this is not merely a passing preference but an essential part of who he is, then he will naturally evaluate a potential spouse through that lens. He will not casually overlook a fundamental incompatibility in the very area that defines his life.

I understand that this is a strong assertion. I understand that there are complicated circumstances and that human beings are not always easy to understand. Nevertheless, I believe the underlying principle is absolutely correct. I can say without hesitation that such a situation would never have happened to me. And I am not uncomfortable saying that publicly. Why?

Because the necessity of building a life centered around Torah was never something vague or uncertain in my mind. It was fundamental to my understanding of who I was and what I wanted my life to become. I knew that I needed a wife who shared that vision. And every bachur must eventually be able to say the same thing about whatever values genuinely define his own life.

Not every person must possess precisely the same level of ahavas haTorah or pursue exactly the same ruchniyus ambitions. Of course, we could have an entirely separate shmuess about the importance of developing ahavas haTorah, about the extraordinary privilege of dedicating one's life to Torah, and about the fact that the entire purpose of creation is ultimately bound up with Torah. Perhaps everyone ought to aspire to become part of that world. But that is a different conversation.

This point is more fundamental. Whatever your genuine values may be, whatever direction you sincerely intend to pursue, you must understand those things with absolute clarity. You cannot afford to remain confused about the matters that will ultimately determine the character of your marriage.

And when should a bachur begin developing that clarity?

When he is already involved in shidduchim? When he is meeting young women, receiving conflicting advice, and hearing endless generalizations about what girls are supposedly like, what they want, and what they expect?

That is precisely when everything can become confusing. The shidduch process introduces emotions, pressures, expectations, and considerations that can make it considerably more difficult to think clearly. A bachur may be told that all girls are essentially the same in certain respects, that particular differences are insignificant, or that certain concerns should simply be overlooked. And if he has not already developed a clear understanding of himself, he may find it very difficult to distinguish between a minor difference that can easily be accommodated and a fundamental incompatibility that will affect the entire direction of his marriage.

Then, several months after the wedding, he suddenly awakens to the reality of his situation and wonders, "What happened? How did I get here? How did I marry someone whose aspirations are so different from my own?" By that point, the question is infinitely more difficult to address.

That is why these matters must be considered before the shidduch process begins. A bachur must use these years to develop an honest and mature understanding of himself. He must identify his values, establish meaningful goals, and determine the kind of life he genuinely wishes to lead. Because when he knows who he is, he will be far better equipped to recognize the person with whom he can build that life.

The Well: A Symbol of Clarity and Direction

Where does this idea come from?

We find something fascinating throughout the Torah. Have you ever noticed how frequently the Avos and Imahos are associated with wells, particularly in connection with marriage? It is remarkable. Again and again, when the Torah describes the circumstances surrounding a shidduch, we encounter a well.

Of course, I am sure someone will eventually discover a wonderful new segulah in all of this. Perhaps they will organize groups of bachurim to spend forty days dancing around a well, removing stones from its opening, and performing all sorts of activities to merit finding their bashert. Perhaps we can even establish an entire campaign, sending yungeleit to some remote well in Eretz Yisrael. Who knows? Maybe someone will find a way to turn it into a fundraising opportunity for the kollel!

But there is a lesson here. Why does the Torah repeatedly associate the formation of a marriage with a well?

The Sfas Emes offers a beautiful explanation.

Eliezer encounters Rivkah Imeinu at the well, where she draws water for him and his camels. Later, when Yaakov Avinu arrives in Charan, he encounters Rachel Imeinu at a well. The Torah describes how a large stone covered its opening, a stone that ordinarily required the combined efforts of several shepherds to remove. Yet Yaakov approaches and removes it with extraordinary ease. Wells also feature prominently in the life of Yitzchak Avinu.

What is the significance of a well?

The Sfas Emes explains that a well represents the process of establishing a path, of uncovering a direction in life. Water exists beneath the surface, but it must be reached. A person must dig, remove the obstacles, and uncover the source that lies hidden below.

That is precisely what a person must accomplish in his own life.

He must discover his direction. He must identify his goals, clarify his values, and determine the path along which he intends to travel. And when does that clarity become especially indispensable?

At the moment he is preparing to make the decision that will shape his entire future, the decision that will ultimately lead him toward Me'aras HaMachpelah and, beyond that, toward Olam HaBa. That is when a person must know where he is going.

Consider Rivkah Imeinu. When Eliezer encounters her at the well, she is already a person of extraordinary clarity. According to the opinion that she was only three years old (see Rashi, Bereishis 25:20), she had nevertheless already demonstrated remarkable maturity. Her character was established, her middos were evident, and the path she had chosen was unmistakable. She had, so to speak, already dug her well.

And the same principle applies to Yaakov Avinu. When Yaakov arrives at the well, his spirital direction is already established. He knows who he is, what he represents, and where his life is meant to lead. The Torah describes him removing the stone with extraordinary ease. The image is striking. The obstacle that ordinarily requires the combined efforts of several people is removed by Yaakov almost effortlessly.

His path is clear.

Rachel and Leah, too, are associated with this setting. The formation of these marriages takes place against the backdrop of the well, the symbol of an established direction and a clearly defined purpose.

This is the yesod the Torah is teaching us.

Before a person can choose the right spouse, he must first choose the direction of his own life.

Once his goals are clear, the decisions surrounding marriage become considerably easier. He can recognize which young woman shares his aspirations and which does not. He can distinguish between a relationship that will help him achieve his purpose and one that may ultimately lead him in a different direction. But that clarity does not develop automatically. It requires a bachur to stop coasting.

Becoming the Person You Hope to Be

Let me offer some practical examples, because I recognize that these ideas can otherwise sound somewhat abstract.

Many bachurim have a particular image of the person they hope to become after marriage. They envision themselves as serious bnei Torah, committed to davening, consistent in their learning, careful in their middos, and distinguished by a genuine sense of ehrlichkeit.

They have an image of what their married lives will look like.

Perhaps a bachur imagines that once he is married, he will become a much more serious masmid. He will daven with greater kavanah, develop stronger sedarim, refine his character, and conduct himself with a higher standard of yiras Shamayim.

These are beautiful aspirations. But there are two serious problems with approaching marriage in this way.

First, if a bachur has not begun living according to those values during his years in yeshiva, how can he reasonably expect to find a young woman who genuinely shares the aspirations he has not yet translated into reality? He may describe the person he hopes to become, but that is not necessarily the person he presently is. And there can be a substantial difference between an aspiration and an established way of life.

Second, why does he assume that these changes will become easier after marriage? Does he imagine that the day after his wedding, he will suddenly find it effortless to wake up for minyan, maintain consistent learning sedarim, become a masmid, and overcome the character weaknesses with which he has struggled for years?

Marriage does not magically eliminate those challenges. Quite the contrary. Marriage introduces responsibilities, obligations, and demands that a single bachur has never previously experienced. He must now consider another person's needs, manage a household, and eventually assume the responsibilities of raising a family.

In many respects, maintaining one's commitments becomes more difficult, not less.

Moreover, in the ordinary development of a Torah home, the husband often plays a significant role in establishing its ruchniyus direction and standards. If he himself has not developed the qualities he hopes to bring into the marriage, he cannot simply assume that those qualities will emerge afterward. Therefore, a bachur who genuinely wants to become a particular kind of person must begin taking the necessary steps now.

Not after the chuppah. Not when he enters kollel. Not when the responsibilities of married life are already upon him.

Now.

He must begin developing the middos, habits, commitments, and priorities that he hopes will eventually characterize his home.

The Difference Between Pleasure and Purpose

But there is something even deeper here, and I want to address it carefully.

We have been speaking about goals, aspirations, and the importance of choosing a clear path. Yet I believe there is another issue that is contributing significantly to the difficulties we sometimes encounter in young marriages. And that is the extent to which certain attitudes and influences from the surrounding secular culture have entered our world.

There is, unfortunately, a considerable amount of goyishkeit that has become normalized in certain circles, even among otherwise serious bnei Torah. Now, I recognize that this is a sensitive subject. There are things that people are reluctant to discuss openly, and perhaps for understandable reasons. Nevertheless, everyone knows that these realities exist.

You can encounter a perfectly respectable yungerman, someone who learns seriously, conducts himself properly, and is generally regarded as a fine ben Torah. Yet when bein hazmanim arrives, he may suddenly be found vacationing in some distant, extravagant destination, the proverbial Hoogie-Boogie Islands, engaging in an entirely different lifestyle from the one he ordinarily associates with his years in yeshiva.

He may be a genuinely good person. He may be learning well and growing in Torah. I am not necessarily questioning any particular individual or suggesting that every such activity is prohibited. But I am pointing to a contradiction that sometimes goes unexamined.

The same young man may marry and, a year or two later, complain that he and his wife are not holding in the same place spiritually. And I want to ask him: what exactly did you expect? You yourself have been cultivating two different sets of aspirations.

On the one hand, you want to be a serious ben Torah. You want to learn, to shteig, and to develop into someone whose life is centered around ruchniyus. On the other hand, you have also developed a taste for certain forms of gashmiyus and secular entertainment that may not be consistent with the spiritual destination you ultimately hope to reach. And because both tendencies coexist within you, you may not recognize the contradiction. You tell yourself that there is no problem. You are learning seriously, you are a good bachur, and certain activities are perfectly acceptable within your social environment. This is permitted, that is acceptable, and the other thing is simply what people do.

But there is a fundamental distinction between something being permissible and something representing the direction in which you want your life to develop. And this distinction becomes especially consequential when choosing a wife.

Imagine a bachur who is twenty-three years old. He enjoys certain forms of entertainment, vacations, and material comforts. At the same time, he genuinely intends to enter kollel, devote himself to Torah, and continue growing spiritually. When he meets a young woman who shares his present interests, he naturally feels a sense of compatibility.

She enjoys the same things he enjoys. They appreciate similar experiences, have similar expectations regarding recreation and lifestyle, and seem to understand one another.

Everything appears to fit.

But what he fails to appreciate is that his present preferences may not reflect his ultimate aspirations. He intends to enter kollel. He hopes to become increasingly immersed in learning. He expects that as he grows in ruchniyus, his priorities will develop and his interests may change.

And perhaps they will. Perhaps, after several years of serious learning, the vacations and entertainments that once seemed so appealing will no longer occupy the same place in his life. He may gradually develop a different sense of what constitutes a meaningful use of his time.

But what about his wife?

She is not necessarily spending those same years immersed in the beis midrash. She may not be undergoing the same process of development in her ruchniyus, at least not in the same manner or at the same pace. The interests and preferences that initially brought them together may remain central to her life. What he regarded as an occasional indulgence at twenty-three may represent an enduring lifestyle preference for her. And suddenly, several years later, he finds himself wondering why they no longer share the same aspirations. He is growing in one direction, while she continues to value the very things that he himself valued when they first met.

And now he is frustrated.

But the problem did not necessarily begin after marriage. It may have begun long before, when he failed to distinguish between the person he happened to be at twenty-three and the person he genuinely intended to become. He evaluated the shidduch according to his present interests rather than the deeper direction of his life.

And that is an enormous mistake.

The issue is not simply whether a particular vacation, activity, or form of recreation is technically permissible. Nor is it a question of whether someone who enjoys these things is a good person. The question is whether those preferences reflect the values around which a person intends to build his future.

A bachur must ask himself: is this genuinely what I want my life to revolve around? Is this the direction in which I hope to grow? And is this the kind of home I want to establish? If he intends to move in one direction while choosing a spouse primarily on the basis of interests that belong to another, he may eventually discover that the apparent compatibility upon which he built the relationship was far less substantial than he imagined.

And that is precisely why clarity must precede shidduchim. A person must understand not only what he enjoys today, but also what he hopes to value tomorrow. He must recognize the difference between his present habits and his deepest aspirations, between what he finds pleasurable and what he considers purposeful. Only then can he begin to evaluate whether a potential spouse shares the direction in which he genuinely wishes to travel.

This is not a theoretical concern. It is a real problem, and one that deserves far more attention than it ordinarily receives.

Marrying for Spiritual Growth

I remember that my rebbeim would sometimes say that a bachur can marry a young woman who is a little more frum than he is. Now, they were addressing a somewhat different point from the one I want to make tonight. Their intention was not necessarily what I am about to suggest. Nevertheless, I believe that in today's circumstances, there is an important application of that principle.

A serious bachur who has developed clear goals must make certain that the young woman he marries genuinely shares those goals and the direction in which he intends to grow. And if you think about it, there is a certain logic to suggesting that he might even benefit from marrying someone who is presently a little more advanced than he is in certain areas of ruchniyus.

Why?

Because a bachur who enters kollel with the proper attitude is supposed to grow. He is supposed to become a greater yarei Shamayim. His learning should increase, his middos should improve, and his relationship with the Ribbono Shel Olam should become more meaningful. He should develop a greater sense of deveikus ba’Hashem, a stronger appreciation for Torah, and a more refined understanding of what it means to live as a genuine ben Torah. That is the natural expectation of someone who spends his days immersed in the beis midrash.

If a yungerman spends years in kollel and does not become a better person, does not grow in yiras Shamayim, and does not develop a deeper connection with Hashem, something is wrong. After all, he is spending his days in an environment of extraordinary kedushah. He is immersed in Torah, surrounded by bnei Torah, and exposed to the ideals of avodas Hashem. How could he remain spiritually stagnant, or worse, move backward?

Of course, there may be emotional difficulties or other personal challenges that interfere with his growth. Every individual has his own circumstances. But we must not regard = stagnation in ruchniyus as the natural or expected outcome of years devoted to Torah learning.

The expectation is that he will grow. And that creates an important consideration when choosing a spouse. If a bachur intends to spend the coming years becoming progressively more serious in his avodas Hashem, he must recognize that the person he marries needs to be compatible not only with who he is today, but also with the person he hopes to become.

There are two ways of approaching this.

One possibility is to marry a young woman who is already somewhat more advanced than he is in certain areas of Yiddishkeit, someone whose present standards are consistent with the direction in which he hopes to develop. But there is something even more important than that.

He must possess absolute clarity about his own goals, and he must ensure that the young woman he is considering genuinely shares those aspirations. If I know who I am, what I value, and where I want my life to lead, then I should be capable of communicating those things clearly during the shidduch process.

And that brings us to a very practical example.

Technology and the Necessity of Shared Standards

Technology.

I believe technology is one of the most significant areas in which this entire issue manifests itself today. It is an extraordinarily important consideration, and one that can have profound consequences for the spiritual character of a marriage.

Yet I hear all sorts of things from people involved in shidduchim about how these matters should be handled. A shadchan may advise a bachur not to be too explicit about his expectations regarding technology. Don't explain exactly what you want. Don't be too specific about your standards. You might frighten the girl away. You might make yourself sound too demanding.

And the same advice is sometimes given to girls.

I want to emphasize that this issue works in both directions. I am not suggesting that the problem belongs exclusively to one side. There are certainly situations in which the young woman has clearer or higher standards regarding technology than the bachur. Now, however, I am approaching the subject primarily from the perspective of the young man.

I once heard a shadchan suggest that this insistence upon compatibility in technological standards is one of the reasons so many bachurim remain unmarried.

I strongly disagree.

That is not the reason so many young men are struggling to find shidduchim. The broader difficulties surrounding the contemporary shidduch situation are a separate subject. But that argument certainly should not be used to discourage a twenty-two- or twenty-three-year-old bachur from clarifying a matter that is genuinely important to him. If something is central to my values, if it represents an essential part of the home I intend to establish, and if I regard it as a lifelong commitment, why should I feel uncomfortable discussing it?

Why should I be reluctant to determine whether the person sitting across from me shares the same perspective? That is precisely what the shidduch process is supposed to accomplish.

Consider what sometimes happens today.

A young couple gets married, and several months later, the husband discovers that his wife is deeply immersed in social media and various forms of online entertainment. She is involved in platforms and activities that he never imagined would become part of their home.

Meanwhile, he considers himself a relatively ordinary ben Torah. He may have internet access, but he uses a filter. Perhaps he occasionally accesses certain websites or engages with technology for particular purposes, but he has established boundaries that he regards as important. His wife, however, has an entirely different relationship with technology. And now he is bewildered. He cannot understand how they ended up with such different standards.

Whenever I encounter such a situation, I ask a very simple question: did you discuss technology while you were dating? And invariably, the answer is something along these lines: "Of course we discussed it!" "What exactly did you discuss?" I ask further. "Well, I asked her what she thought about technology, and she said that she wanted to have a filter." "And what did you say?" "I told her that I wanted a filter too." "Wonderful. And then what happened?" "Well, we agreed, and we moved on."

Moved on? To what?

Think about what just happened.

Here is a matter that may profoundly influence the spiritual atmosphere of your home, your personal standards, your future children, and the direction of your marriage. And you devoted perhaps thirty seconds to it. You asked whether she wanted a filter. She said yes. You said that you wanted one too. And that was the end of the conversation. But what did she actually mean?

Perhaps she meant that she very much wanted her husband to have a filter. Absolutely. One hundred percent. Her husband should have a filter. She considers that extremely important. But herself? Why would she need a filter? She is a girl. She may have grown accustomed to using technology differently, and she may see no reason to adopt the same restrictions she expects of her husband. From her perspective, there is no contradiction whatsoever. She told him that she wanted a filter, and she meant every word. She wanted him to have one. But he understood her statement entirely differently. He assumed that she intended to maintain the same technological standards that he expected of himself. And because neither of them clarified what the other actually meant, they entered marriage believing that they were in complete agreement. Only afterward did they discover that they had been speaking about two entirely different things.

Now, this example may sound amusing, and I recognize the humor in it. But I am describing a very real phenomenon.

And again, it can happen just as easily in the opposite direction. A young woman may have carefully considered the technological standards she wants in her home, while the bachur she is dating has a very different understanding of what those standards entail.

The issue is not whether one particular standard is universally appropriate for every couple. That is a separate discussion. The issue is clarity. When something matters deeply to a person, he must be able to articulate what he means. It is not enough to exchange broad statements about wanting a Torah home, valuing ruchniyus, or maintaining appropriate boundaries with technology. Those expressions can mean very different things to different people.

A couple must understand what those commitments actually look like in practice. And that is why the responsibility begins long before shidduchim. A bachur who has genuinely thought about the kind of home he wants to establish will not be satisfied with vague assurances. He will know which matters are essential to him, which are preferences, and which are areas in which he can reasonably be flexible.

He will be capable of having a mature, respectful, and substantive conversation about those matters without feeling that he is imposing unreasonable demands. And he will recognize that discovering a fundamental difference in values before marriage is infinitely preferable to discovering it afterward.

That is the point.

If something is truly a lifelong value, it deserves more than a passing question during a date. It deserves genuine clarity, serious consideration, and an honest understanding between two people who are contemplating building their lives together.

Principles That Endure in a Changing World

In earlier years, these conversations were somewhat simpler. The technological questions were relatively limited. A bachur might say, for example, that he occasionally watched movies during bein hazmanim. Of course, there was always the question of what exactly he meant by bein hazmanim. For some people, it seemed to begin on Lag BaOmer and continue until Lag BaOmer of the following year! But at least the subject itself was relatively straightforward.

Today, however, the situation has become infinitely more complicated.

I recently encountered a couple experiencing serious difficulties surrounding artificial intelligence. The wife had become accustomed to consulting AI about virtually everything, including how to communicate with her in-laws. Meanwhile, her in-laws were themselves consulting AI about how to communicate with their daughter-in-law. Imagine that. An Orthodox Jewish family, with each side asking a computer how to speak to the other!

And the husband was deeply troubled by the extent to which technology had become involved in their personal relationships. But what were they supposed to have done? When they were dating, AI was not yet part of their everyday lives. They could hardly have discussed whether they intended to use a technology that had not yet become widely available. It would have been like asking someone years ago, "Do you intend to use Google?" What kind of question is that? So how can a couple possibly prepare for technological developments that neither of them can anticipate?

The answer is remarkably simple.

They do not need to predict every new technology. They need to understand the role they want technology to occupy in their lives.

If I have clarity about my values and the direction in which I want my home to develop, then I can evaluate new technologies as they emerge. Do I want technology primarily for business and professional responsibilities? Do I want to use it only when necessary? Do I regard it as an appropriate means of communicating with friends and family? Or do I consider myself a more worldly person who enjoys remaining connected to contemporary culture and technological developments?

These are different approaches, and a person must understand which one reflects his own priorities.

When that clarity exists, the emergence of a new technology does not necessarily create a crisis. Husband and wife can consider it together in light of the principles they already share.

I can tell you that my wife and I would not have experienced a fundamental disagreement simply because AI became available. Why? Because the underlying goals were already clear. We knew the kind of home we wanted to establish and the place we wanted technology to occupy within it. And that is what I mean by having a clearly defined path.

Nobody is asking a twenty-two-year-old bachur to determine precisely who he will be at ninety years old. That would be absurd. Nobody can anticipate every circumstance, challenge, or development that life will bring. We are speaking about something much more fundamental: clarity of direction.

And that brings us back to the image of the well.

You do not need to draw every drop of water from the well today. You do not need to know every detail of the journey ahead. But you must have dug the well. You must have established the path.

You must know where you are going. And once you have that clarity, you must be prepared to remain faithful to it.

The Courage to Remain True to Your Values

Unfortunately, when bachurim enter shidduchim, they sometimes begin hearing all sorts of discouraging statements. They are told that the kind of young woman they are seeking does not exist, that their expectations are unrealistic, or that they will have to compromise on matters they previously considered essential.

But let me remind you of Leah Imeinu.

As we discussed earlier, Chazal tell us that Leah was originally destined to marry Eisav. That was her mazal. And Eisav was not merely someone with whom she had a minor difference in personality. Eisav represented an entirely different spiritual world.

Yet Leah refused to accept that such a marriage would be her destiny. As noted, Maharal explains that changing one's mazal is extraordinarily difficult, even more difficult than changing the natural order. Nevertheless, Leah's tefillos accomplished precisely that. She was determined that she would not marry an Eisav. Even if it meant crying until her eyes became weak, she would continue to daven. And every person, in a certain sense, has his own Eisav.

Every bachur must understand which kind of relationship would be fundamentally incompatible with the life he intends to build. He must possess the clarity to recognize that certain differences are not merely matters of personal preference, but represent entirely different spiritual destinations. That does not mean every person must adopt the same standards. It means that every person must know which standards are genuinely essential to him. Leah knew what she could not accept. And a bachur must develop that same clarity.

The truth is that he will probably not need to struggle as intensely as Leah did. But he must at least know what he is seeking and what he cannot compromise without abandoning the direction of his life. Yet what happens today?

A bachur may enter shidduchim with a reasonably clear sense of his values, but the moment he begins dating, everything becomes uncertain. Suddenly, he becomes wishy-washy. He no longer knows what he wants. He becomes hesitant to express his convictions. He begins reconsidering principles that he previously regarded as fundamental, not necessarily because he has thoughtfully changed his mind, but because he has become overwhelmed by the process. And that is a recipe for disaster.

Let us summarize the point.

First, a person who is wishy-washy about his values is far more likely to marry someone whose aspirations do not genuinely correspond to his own. Second, indecisiveness about one's fundamental direction is an entirely inappropriate approach to a decision as consequential as marriage. We are speaking about choosing a partner with whom one hopes to build a life that ultimately leads toward Olam HaBa.

How can a person approach such a decision without knowing where he wants to go? And third, a person who lacks clarity about his own values will find it extraordinarily difficult to help establish a consistent spiritual direction within his home. How can he guide the development of a household when he himself does not know what he stands for? How can he establish standards when he has never seriously determined which standards matter to him? Does he imagine that he will suddenly discover his convictions after marriage? Or perhaps he intends to develop that clarity while dating?

We all know the stories of bachurim who have gone out with forty or fifty girls, perhaps on hundreds of dates, and only then announce that they finally understand what they are looking for. After fifty girls, they have discovered who they are! And perhaps after another hundred, they will discover something else.

But the essential point remains: a bachur should not need to spend years in shidduchim merely to develop a basic understanding of himself. That work should begin beforehand.

And as I have already emphasized, technology is one of the clearest areas in which this problem becomes apparent.

There is an enormous amount of ambiguity surrounding technological standards today. People use the same expressions while meaning entirely different things. They describe themselves as careful, filtered, moderate, or chilled, but those descriptions may conceal substantial differences in actual behavior.

And that brings me to another issue.

What is one of the first lessons we learn from Avraham Avinu's instructions to Eliezer?

Avraham insists that Yitzchak must not be taken to an unsuitable environment. He is determined to protect the spiritual direction of his son and the home that Yitzchak will eventually establish.

On Friday, I spoke with a variety of bachurim. I spoke with ordinary bachurim, outstanding bachurim, and even some who might be described as rather less conventional. I wanted to understand what was actually happening.

A bachur is meeting a young woman to determine whether she might be the person with whom he will build his entire life. He is supposed to be evaluating whether they share a spiritual direction, whether their aspirations are compatible, and whether they can establish a home together.

And where are they having this conversation? In an arcade, surrounded by blaring music, electronic games, and entertainment that may be completely foreign to the atmosphere of a beis midrash. Perhaps there is some performer or musician playing in the background whose appearance and conduct are so objectionable that the same bachur would instinctively distance himself if he encountered him on the street.

Yet here he is, sitting comfortably in an environment saturated with precisely those influences. And this is supposed to be the setting in which he determines whether the young woman sitting beside him shares his deepest values?

I find the contradiction extraordinary.

Now, I understand that there are many gray areas. Not every recreational activity is prohibited, and not every environment can be categorized so simply. There are legitimate differences in standards and sensitivities. But that is precisely why a person must possess clarity.

There may be certain aspects of secular culture that a bachur presently enjoys, even while recognizing that they do not represent the direction in which he ultimately wishes to grow. The danger arises when he chooses a spouse on the basis of those temporary interests, without considering whether she regards them as permanent features of the lifestyle she hopes to establish.

And again, I emphasize that this problem operates in both directions. A young woman may be deeply committed to particular spiritual standards while the bachur she marries has never seriously considered whether he shares them. The underlying issue is the same.

I see young men who are serious about their learning, who respect their rabbeim, who are genuinely good people, and who sincerely aspire to grow in Torah.

Yet they describe themselves as chilled. What does that mean? Perhaps it means that they occasionally watch a movie, listen to certain kinds of music, or engage in forms of entertainment that are not entirely consistent with the standards they otherwise aspire to maintain. They are not necessarily rejecting Torah values. They may simply be allowing themselves occasional indulgences. And because these activities are occasional, they do not regard them as defining their identity.

But then they meet a young woman who also describes herself as chilled. Wonderful. They seem to have something in common. He watches something from time to time. She watches something from time to time. They both use the same expression.

But what does from time to time actually mean? For him, it may mean an occasional movie or some entertainment during bein hazmanim. For her, it may mean spending much of her free time immersed in entertainment and social media. Her understanding of occasionally may extend from the moment she wakes up until the moment she goes to sleep! And neither one necessarily realizes how differently they understand the same words.

They marry, believing that they share a similar outlook. But after several months, the husband begins to recognize that they are not living according to the same priorities. He is learning in kollel, developing spiritually, and becoming increasingly committed to the values of Torah. Meanwhile, his wife may remain deeply invested in the forms of entertainment and technology that he now regards as peripheral, or perhaps even inconsistent with the life he hopes to build.

And suddenly, he is devastated. He feels that they are living in two different worlds. He may become so distressed that he no longer knows how to proceed. And what am I supposed to tell him? There is no simple answer. Nobody wants to tell a young couple that their marriage cannot succeed. Nobody wants to suggest divorce as an easy solution to difficulties that may require considerable understanding, patience, and guidance.

These are painful situations involving real people, real emotions, and the future of a family. And that is precisely why I am so insistent that we address the problem before it develops.

A bachur who has genuinely dug his well, who has established a clear direction in life, should be far better equipped to avoid such a situation.

A person who understands that marriage is not merely about finding someone compatible with his present twenty-three-year-old self, but about finding a partner for his entire spiritual journey, will approach these matters differently. He will not be satisfied with vague descriptions or superficial similarities. He will want to understand the values that actually guide the other person's life. And if he has developed genuine clarity about himself, he will be able to recognize whether those values correspond to his own.

It is the same principle we discussed earlier regarding physical attraction. When a bachur understands that attraction is important, he makes sure to consider it. He does not simply ignore the issue and hope that everything will work out afterward.

Why should he approach spiritual compatibility with any less seriousness? If anything, the consequences are far greater. We do not regard marriage merely as a means of companionship, pleasure, or personal fulfillment. We marry to build a world. We marry to establish a family, to create a home devoted to Torah and mitzvos, and to fulfill the purpose for which Hashem placed us in this world.

And those decisions cannot begin only when a bachur is already sitting across from a young woman on a date.

The preparation must begin now. A bachur must examine himself honestly. He must recognize his chesronos, the weaknesses in his character, the areas in which his middos require refinement, and the habits that may eventually interfere with the kind of home he hopes to establish. He must begin working on those matters while he still has the opportunity to develop without the additional responsibilities of marriage.

If technology is an area of weakness, he must begin establishing appropriate boundaries. If his middos need improvement, he must begin refining them. If his commitment to learning or davening is inconsistent, he must begin strengthening those commitments. He does not need to achieve perfection before marriage. Nobody is asking that of him. But he must be moving in the right direction. Otherwise, he may eventually discover that he has married someone who is not interested in building that same life alongside him.

Now, someone may object that everything is bashert.

If Hashem has already determined whom a person will marry, why should we be so concerned about these matters?

I understand the question. There are complicated discussions in Chazal regarding bashert, mazal, and the relationship between Divine providence and human choice. The Gemara (Sotah 2a) speaks about a zivug rishon and a zivug sheini, and the mefarshim offer different explanations of how these concepts are to be understood.

Perhaps different forms of mazal are involved. Perhaps the nature of one's hishtadlus influences the outcome. Perhaps there are other considerations that we do not fully understand. I do not claim to have resolved every difficulty in these sugyos. But I do know that a person must not use the concept of bashert as an excuse to avoid taking responsibility.

One should not casually invoke bashert to justify failing to think carefully, neglecting proper hishtadlus, or ignoring concerns that deserve serious consideration. If a person genuinely lives with the level of emunah necessary to accept everything as ratzon ha’Borei, that is an extraordinary madreigah. But then he must truly mean it.

He must be prepared to recognize Hashem's will not only when life unfolds according to his expectations, but also when he encounters painful disappointments and difficult circumstances. That is when the conviction that everything is bashert becomes a genuine expression of emunah. It is not a substitute for responsibility. It is the foundation upon which a person confronts the circumstances that remain beyond his control.

Wealth Is Not the Foundation of Marriage

Now, before we conclude, let me address one more subject

Let us speak briefly about money.

Money can provide comfort, but money is not the foundation of a meaningful marriage.

Of course, everyone wants a comfortable life. There is nothing inherently wrong with financial security, and there is no reason to pretend that money cannot make certain aspects of married life easier. It can. Financial resources can relieve pressure, provide opportunities, and reduce some of the practical burdens that young couples encounter. But money must not become the primary reason a person chooses whom to marry.

The Torah itself presents individuals who possessed considerable wealth. Lavan, for example, appears to have been a man of substantial means, and the family of Besuel enjoyed material resources. Yet wealth tells us very little about the spiritual character of a person or the quality of the home he will establish.

I have seen people who placed enormous emphasis on marrying into wealth. At the time, the financial advantages seemed extraordinarily attractive. The prospect of a comfortable lifestyle appeared to outweigh other considerations. But years later, the excitement surrounding that money had diminished. The wealth may still have been there. The couple may still have been married. They may have continued to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. Yet the financial considerations that once seemed so compelling no longer possessed the same significance. And if the marriage lacked a deeper foundation, money could not supply what was missing.

This does not mean that marrying someone from a wealthy family is a mistake. Certainly not. If a young woman possesses the qualities that make her a suitable spouse, the fact that she comes from a financially comfortable background may be an additional advantage. Nor am I suggesting that practical considerations should be ignored. Financial stability can make married life easier, just as marrying someone with a pleasant, easygoing temperament may make the relationship considerably more manageable.

These things matter. But they must be understood in their proper proportion.

A person must distinguish between the qualities that contribute to a comfortable marriage and the qualities that establish the essential foundation of the marriage itself.

Money may make life easier. But neither financial resources nor external comforts can replace a genuine compatibility of values, aspirations, and purpose. And that is the reality a bachur must understand before entering shidduchim. He is not merely choosing the circumstances in which he hopes to live. He is choosing the person with whom he hopes to build his life.

But the truth is that most people, with a little serious thought, should be able to examine their own families, their own circumstances, and the world in which they live, and recognize what I am describing. These are not abstract ideas. They are realities that we can observe if we are willing to think carefully.

Physical Attraction: An Important but Limited Consideration

Now, let me address the second practical consideration: physical appearance.

This is actually very simple, and I do not intend to spend much time on it.

When considering a young woman's appearance, the essential question is: is this the face I want to come home to?

That is it. If a bachur approaches the question with that perspective, he will generally be thinking about it in the proper way.

But if he becomes preoccupied with beauty, beauty, and more beauty, if his entire evaluation revolves around finding someone exceptionally attractive according to some external standard, then he is approaching the subject with a very narrow perspective.

That is not what marriage is about. Now, I want to be absolutely clear. I am not suggesting that physical attraction is unimportant. A man must be attracted to the woman he marries. That is a legitimate and necessary consideration, and it should not be dismissed. But there is an enormous difference between wanting to marry someone whose appearance genuinely appeals to you and becoming consumed with the pursuit of extraordinary beauty.

Once a bachur understands the purpose of marriage, possesses clarity about his own values, and appreciates the kind of life he hopes to build, many of these practical questions become much easier to evaluate.

Sometimes a bachur is uncertain whether he finds a particular young woman sufficiently attractive. He consults a rebbe or another trusted adviser, hoping to receive guidance.

That is entirely appropriate.

But suppose he knows, deep down, that he is not attracted to her, and the rebbe begins persuading him that he should proceed with the shidduch anyway. In such a situation, I would strongly encourage him to seek a second opinion. And there is nothing disrespectful about doing so.

This is not a matter in which a bachur should simply disregard his own genuine feelings because someone else insists that the match is suitable. A rebbe can provide perspective, help him distinguish between reasonable concerns and unrealistic expectations, and guide him through uncertainty. But he cannot manufacture attraction where it does not exist.

A bachur must be honest with himself. That is the essential point.

When It Shtims

Now, the third consideration is equally straightforward. If it shtims, marry her. It really can be that simple. What do I mean by shtims?

I mean that the two of you are compatible. You share the same fundamental goals and values. You are moving in the same direction spiritually. You enjoy one another's company, your conversations flow naturally, and you look forward to seeing each other again.

Everything we discussed earlier is already in place. The essential questions about the kind of home you want to build have been addressed, and you are genuinely comfortable with one another.

What more are you waiting for?

Some bachurim seem to expect some extraordinary emotional experience, as though bells must suddenly begin ringing and a heavenly announcement must accompany the realization that this is the right person. What exactly are they waiting to feel?

If the relationship is developing naturally, the goals are aligned, and the two of you genuinely enjoy being together, there is no reason to assume that some dramatic emotional revelation must occur before you can proceed.

In fact, Rav Moshe Feinstein addresses a fascinating question along these lines in one of his teshuvos in Igros Moshe.

A young man was dating a particular young woman but remained uncertain whether he should marry her. He wanted to determine whether they would be compatible in the ordinary practical aspects of married life, particularly whether he would enjoy her cooking.

So he devised an extraordinary proposal.

He wanted to live in the same residence with her for a period of time, while arranging for a third person to be present so that there would be no problem of yichud. During that period, she would cook for him, and he would be able to evaluate whether the arrangement was suitable.

Imagine the unfortunate yeshiva bachur who might have been recruited to serve as the third person in that household! He would probably have emerged with enough stories to entertain the entire yeshiva for years. Perhaps the food would have been so terrible that he would have had to sneak out for falafel every afternoon.

But in all seriousness, the question was presented to Rav Moshe.

Rav Moshe rejected the proposal. The arrangement was not an appropriate way to determine whether the couple should marry, and it was unnecessary.

His response reflected a much more straightforward approach.

If the young woman comes from a suitable family, possesses the appropriate qualities, and the two of them are compatible, then there is no need to subject the relationship to elaborate experiments in order to determine whether every aspect of married life will be satisfactory.

If it shtims, marry her.

That is the principle.

Now, this brings us to another important consideration: hergeshim, the feelings and emotional impressions that arise during the shidduch process.

I want to make a distinction here.

On the one hand, a person does not necessarily need to experience overwhelming emotions before deciding to marry. The absence of dramatic feelings is not, by itself, a reason to reject an otherwise suitable shidduch. On the other hand, feelings are not meaningless.

Sometimes a person's emotional response can provide important information about whether a particular relationship is right for him. Those feelings must be understood carefully, but they should not simply be ignored.

Let me illustrate with an incident.

I once spoke with a bachur who was dating a young woman. From everything he described, the relationship appeared suitable. He was a serious young man with clear priorities, and he and the young woman seemed to share the same values and aspirations.

Their conversations were going well. They enjoyed one another's company. There did not appear to be any significant incompatibility. So I told him that, based on what he had described, there seemed to be no reason he could not proceed.

"It shtims," I said. "Everything sounds fine. You can marry her." But he remained hesitant.

He kept telling me that he was not sure he could go through with it. So I asked him a simple question.

"Tell me something. If she called you tomorrow and said that she did not want to continue, would you be thrilled?" "No," he replied. "I would not be thrilled." "Would you be relieved?" "No, not particularly." "Then what is the problem? If you would be disappointed to lose the shidduch, and everything else seems appropriate, perhaps you are simply nervous about making such a significant decision."

I told him again that there appeared to be no compelling reason not to proceed. And that was the end of our conversation. Or so I thought.

Approximately ten minutes later, he called me back.

"I can’t do it," he said. "I just can’t go through with it." At that point, I told him that perhaps he should not proceed.

Now, someone might ask why I changed my position. The answer is that the emotional response itself had become important information. There is a difference between a bachur who is understandably nervous about marriage and one who experiences a persistent, deeply felt reluctance to marry a particular person.

Sometimes a young man tells me, "If she would say no, I would be the happiest person in the world." That is not exactly the emotional state in which I would want someone approaching the chuppah.

Of course, every situation must be evaluated individually. Anxiety, indecisiveness, and fear of commitment can complicate these matters. One cannot simply establish a universal rule based on a single emotional reaction.

But the point is that hergeshim sometimes matter. The absence of extraordinary feelings does not necessarily mean that a shidduch is unsuitable. Yet strong and persistent feelings of reluctance may deserve serious attention.

And that brings us to the fundamental rule.

There is no universal rule. That itself is the rule.

Every shidduch involves particular individuals, particular circumstances, and particular considerations. The purpose of guidance is not to replace a person's judgment with a rigid formula, but to help him understand himself and evaluate the situation responsibly.

Now, there is one final subject I want to address, and perhaps it is the most important of all. Emunah.

Emunah in the Face of Uncertainty

When it comes to shidduchim, a person must develop tremendous emunah and bitachon.

Some of you sitting here tonight may have older brothers or sisters who are still waiting to find their bashert. If that is the case, you should be davening for them with all your heart. Because the Parsha of shidduchim can be extraordinarily difficult. Those who have not experienced it personally may not fully appreciate how painful it can become.

A young man or young woman may spend years going out, receiving suggestions, experiencing disappointment, and wondering when the right person will finally appear.

And the difficulty does not affect only the individual. It can affect the entire household. Parents become anxious. Siblings feel the tension. Every new suggestion brings hope, and every disappointment can leave the family feeling increasingly discouraged. It is a terribly difficult nisayon.

And that is why the stories we hear about great people who experienced prolonged difficulties in shidduchim can be so important.

Consider Rav Chaim Kanievsky zt”l.

Today, people sometimes speak about Rav Chaim in ways that emphasize his extraordinary tzidkus while overlooking the almost unimaginable magnitude of his gadlus baTorah. He was not merely a tzaddik who spent his days learning. He was an extraordinary lamdan, a towering talmid chacham whose breadth and depth of Torah knowledge were almost beyond comprehension.

Anyone who has examined his sefer Nachal Eisan can appreciate something of that greatness. It is an extensive work devoted to the sugya of eglah arufah, in which Rav Chaim explores an astonishing range of connections between that subject and virtually every area of Torah. He reportedly offered a copy of the sefer to anyone who could identify a Torah subject that he had not connected in some way to eglah arufah.

Imagine the breadth of knowledge required to undertake such a project. Even artificial intelligence might struggle to discover a connection that Rav Chaim had overlooked!

And this was only one example of his extraordinary accomplishments.

As a young man, he authored Mezuzos Beisecha, a comprehensive work on the halachos of mezuzah, organized in a manner reminiscent of the Mishnah Berurah. His father, the Steipler Gaon, reportedly objected to the idea of presenting the work as another Mishnah Berurah. So Rav Chaim gave it a different name.

But there was a clever detail.

The initials of Mezuzos Beisecha are mem and beis, the same initials as Mishnah Berurah. Apparently, Rav Chaim managed to preserve the allusion after all!

If only every parent were blessed with a child whose mischief consisted of writing monumental works of Torah scholarship. The point is that Rav Chaim was an extraordinary ben Torah from his earliest years.

He was the son of the Steipler, the nephew of the Chazon Ish, and a young man of remarkable spiritual and intellectual stature.

One might imagine that finding a shidduch for such a person would have been the easiest thing in the world. But that was not the case.

Rav Chaim himself related that he was involved in shidduchim for approximately seven years. Seven years! He began when he was still quite young, around seventeen, and did not marry until approximately twenty-four. And during those years, he experienced rejection after rejection.

Rav Chaim reportedly said quite openly that people simply did not want to marry him. Some considered him too intense. Others may have found his extraordinary devotion to learning difficult to relate to. Whatever the reasons, numerous suggestions did not materialize.

Imagine that.

Rav Chaim Kanievsky, one of the greatest Torah scholars of our generation, was repeatedly rejected in shidduchim. And what ultimately happened?

He married Rebbetzin Batsheva Kanievsky, the daughter of Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashivz t”l. But when Rav Chaim first began shidduchim, she was still a child, approximately eleven years old. She was not yet of an age to marry.

The time had simply not arrived. And so Rav Chaim had to wait. All those years, all those disappointments, all those suggestions that did not work out, were part of the path that ultimately led him to his wife.

What a remarkable lesson in emunah.

If Rav Chaim Kanievsky could spend seven years in shidduchim, despite his extraordinary greatness, then no ordinary bachur should imagine that prolonged difficulty necessarily reflects some deficiency in himself.

It does not mean that he is unworthy. It does not mean that he has failed. And it certainly does not mean that the Ribbono Shel Olam has forgotten him.

But there is another dimension to bashert that must also be understood. People sometimes speak as though the concept of bashert means that no matter what they do, the right shidduch will inevitably arrive. They assume that there is no possibility of losing an opportunity that Heaven has designated for them.

But that is not necessarily how we are meant to understand the matter.

There are sources indicating that a person can, through his own conduct or decisions, lose a shidduch that might otherwise have been appropriate.

The Steipler Gaon wrote a striking letter to a distinguished talmid chacham concerning this very issue. The recipient was apparently a person of considerable stature, as reflected in the honorifics with which the Steipler addressed him. Yet the Steipler wrote to him in extraordinarily forceful language. The man had repeatedly rejected shidduch suggestions for his daughter, and the Steipler warned him that such conduct could have devastating consequences.

He went so far as to describe the father's behavior in terms of shefichus damim, the shedding of blood, because his unreasonable rejection of suitable opportunities was preventing his daughter from marrying. The language is astonishingly severe. The Steipler's message was that a parent must not casually dismiss appropriate shidduchim and then assume that everything will somehow work out because of bashert.

Human decisions have consequences. And therefore, a person must approach shidduchim with both emunah and responsibility. On the one hand, he must believe that Hashem guides the process and that the right marriage ultimately depends upon Hashgacha Pratis. On the other hand, he must recognize that he is obligated to exercise proper judgment, make appropriate hishtadlus, and avoid allowing unrealistic expectations or unnecessary obstacles to interfere with a suitable match.

These two principles are not contradictory.

They complement one another. And this is why the years before shidduchim are so important. A bachur must begin developing genuine emunah and bitachon now, before he encounters the inevitable uncertainties and disappointments of the process. He must learn to trust the Ribbono Shel Olam without becoming passive, and to make responsible decisions without imagining that everything depends entirely upon his own efforts.

He must develop clarity about his goals, strength in his convictions, and confidence that Hashem will guide him toward the life he is meant to build. And if others tell him that the kind of young woman he hopes to marry simply does not exist, he should not immediately abandon the values that he has thoughtfully established. Of course, he must be realistic. He must distinguish between essential principles and unnecessary preferences, and he must remain open to responsible guidance.

But he should not surrender his deepest aspirations merely because someone insists that they are unattainable. A person who knows where he is going must have the courage to remain faithful to that direction.

That is the lesson of the well. That is the lesson of Leah Imeinu. And that is the lesson of Me'aras HaMachpelah.

Marriage is not merely about finding someone who appeals to the person you happen to be today. It is about finding someone with whom you can build the life you are meant to live. And the preparation for that marriage begins long before the first date.

It begins with knowing who you are, understanding where you want to go, and developing the emunah to trust that the Ribbono Shel Olam will help you reach your destination.

Hishtadlus Before, Emunah After

There is a remarkable story involving the Brisker Rav zt”l, which illustrates a profound principle of emunah and bitachon.

The Brisker Rav had a daughter who suffered from severe asthma. Her condition was so serious that she would occasionally experience frightening attacks during which she struggled desperately to breathe. Because these episodes could occur without warning, the family took extraordinary precautions to ensure that an inhaler would always be available.

There were inhalers throughout the house, in practically every room, so that wherever she happened to be, the necessary medication would be within reach.

Tragically, one day she suffered a particularly severe asthma attack.

The family immediately began searching for an inhaler, but in the confusion and urgency of the moment, they could not find one. They rushed from room to room, desperately trying to locate the medication that might save her life.

But they were unsuccessful. And the young woman passed away. It was a devastating tragedy. What made the circumstances even more heartbreaking was what the family discovered afterward.

In the very place where she had been sitting, there were three inhalers lying on the bed. Three inhalers. The medication they had been desperately searching for had been right there all along. It is almost too painful to recount. One can only imagine the anguish of discovering that the very thing they had been frantically seeking was within reach the entire time. Naturally, the family was overcome with grief. The thought of what might have happened had they noticed those inhalers was almost unbearable.

Perhaps during the shivah, someone raised the matter with the Brisker Rav. I do not recall precisely who was present or the exact circumstances in which the conversation took place. But the essential lesson of the story is extraordinary.

The Brisker Rav did not allow himself to become consumed by the question of what might have been. Why? Because he possessed an extraordinary clarity in emunah and bitachon.

He understood a fundamental principle: there is a time for hishtadlus, and there is a time when hishtadlus has come to an end. Before an event occurs, a person has an obligation to do everything reasonably necessary to protect life, prevent harm, and fulfill his responsibilities. He must act carefully, responsibly, and with proper hishtadlus.

But after an event has occurred, there is no makom for hishtadlus lemafreia. There is no such thing as retroactive hishtadlus. One cannot return to the past and change what has already happened. And once a person has done what he was obligated to do, he must recognize that the outcome ultimately rests in the hands of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

The Brisker Rav understood that his daughter's life had lasted precisely as long as Hashem had decreed. The discovery of those inhalers did not alter that reality. It was an extraordinary expression of emunah, particularly in circumstances of such unimaginable pain.

The lesson is not that a person should neglect his responsibilities because everything is ultimately in Hashem's hands. Quite the contrary. Before something happens, there is an obligation of hishtadlus. Afterward, there is no possibility of hishtadlus lemafreia. And that distinction is especially important when it comes to marriage.

One day, every bachur will be married. At that point, the decision will have been made. He will have entered into a lifelong commitment, and his responsibility will be to build the strongest, healthiest, and most spiritually meaningful marriage possible.

There will be no purpose in endlessly revisiting the past, wondering whether he should have approached the shidduch differently or whether some other decision might have produced a different outcome. That is not where his avodah will lie.nHis avodah will be in the present, in strengthening the marriage Hashem has given him.

But right now, before marriage, the situation is entirely different. Now is the time for hishtadlus. Now is the time to prepare. Now is the time to develop clarity about who you are, what you value, and where you want your life to lead.

Everything we have discussed tonight concerns the hishtadlus that must take place now. And that is why I believe these matters are so important for every bachur, even those who are not yet involved in shidduchim. You must prepare yourselves for that extraordinary moment when you will eventually sit across from a young woman and consider whether she is the person with whom you hope to build your life.

May it, b’ezras Hashem, be soon for all those in need.