Life is Just a Piece of Kugel now available to all on Amazon.com

                                             

I am excited to share the great news that my new book 'Life Is Just a Piece of Kugel' is available on Amazon.com. Here is the link if you wish to purchase a copy. Thank you to everyone who made this possible.

http://www.amazon.com/Life-Just-Piece-Kugel-Everywhere/dp/1508448647/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1432657553&sr=8-1&keywords=life+is+just+a+piece+of+kugel

 

Your Virtual Minyan Awaits

 
Oy when I woke up the day after Thanksgiving I was still suffering from a tryptophan hangover from eating way too much turkey the day before. I didn’t want to do anything but drink a cup of coffee and read the local newspaper and go back to sleep. Unfortunately since I was the low man on my department totem pole I had to go to work and hold down the fort. So after a second cup of my wife Linda’s delicious coffee I gathered up my brief case and my tallis and tefillin and headed off to the office. I figured no one would be there and I could take my time and daven in my office.
 
When I arrived at what my colleagues affectionately call the Crystal Palace, located in Tyson’s Corner Virginia, the building was virtually empty and there were only three people on my entire floor. So after putting a few things in order I got ready to do the morning davening and thank Hashem for the many blessings my family and my congregation enjoy. But before donning my tallis and tefillin I decided to log onto my favorite website 770live.org!
 
If you’ve never been to 770live.org before you’ve missed a real treat. The website is loaded with more Jewish information then you could ever hope for. From information about when to daven, to how to light Shabbos candles, to an in-depth discussion on that week’s Torah portion, it’s all there with a click of a mouse. While I enjoy the entire website, my favorite part of the site is the direct video and audio feed directly into 770, which is the location of the World Headquarters and main Shul for Chabad.
 
Yes six days a week, 24 hours a day, a video feed takes you right into the heart of the Shul. So if a loved one is davening and you want to see them, one click and you are with them. If there is a speaker talking about a complex issue pertaining to Jewish law, one click and before you can say “More kugel please” you are there listening. And if you are like me and you are davening alone on the eighth floor of a deserted glass and metal high rise, one click and you are davening with hundreds of other men in a virtual Minyan!
 
While you are not technically part of a Minyan, you still get to feel the energy and zest for life that permeates the entire gathering. With tens of Minyans going on at any given time you can’t help but see and hear one that has just started or is in the middle of a great melody. Men and boys can be heard singing and davening with the kind of zeal and excitement that many of us can only dream of.
 
Within seconds you find yourself transported to 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn New York and you are in the middle of a joyous commotion. Amens fill the air as a Chazzan chants Kaddish and without a moment’s notice the quiet, lonely room in which you are physically davening is filled with a cacophony of song and prayers.
 
The small speakers attached to your monitor suddenly tremble as hundreds of men finish davening and spontaneously start to dance around the Shul. You can’t help but feel the energy and the excitement as this virtual Minyan swirls around you. Without warning your mundane morning suddenly transforms into a joyous celebration of the Jewish people and their traditions. What started as a quiet moment, alone in your office, becomes a celebration of the love you feel for Hashem. No other site on the web can provide so much for so little.
 
When you are finished davening it is almost impossible to click off and go back to work.  You see the members of your virtual Minyan engaged in passionate discussions about Torah, young Yeshiva students debating the finer points of their Talmud studies, and most of all you see young and old alike sharing in one of the great joys of life, worshipping together.
 
No yoga class, aerobics class, or marathon can produce the endorphins you get from this spiritual high. This is the real deal and it is very difficult to disconnect and sign off. But eventually the world intrudes and indeed it is time to click off and go back to work. But the beauty is, with the exception of Shabbos, your virtual Minyan is always ready to welcome you back with open arms.
 
When I was done davening that morning and I went back to work a colleague from across the hall approached me. She said “I was walking by and I heard some strange tunes coming out of your office, what exactly where you doing in there?”
I explained that I was Jewish and that when I daven at work I usually click on this special website that allows me to pray with other Jews. She laughed and told me that she hadn’t heard tunes like that or people shouting Amen with such vigor since she was a little girl and went to her Grandfather’s Shul in New York!  She said she has a frume daughter and son-in-law and wondered if I would mind meeting them and taking her son-in-law to Shul the next time they came for a visit? I told her it would be an honor to bring him to Shul and maybe we could even arrange a Kosher Shabbos dinner at her house.  She loved the idea and we hope to bring everyone together soon.
 
With a huge smile on my face I went back to work. I couldn’t help but wonder at the idea that a simple thing like davening online with my virtual Minyan could release Holy Sparks right here in Tyson’s Corner Virginia, while simultaneously releasing long buried memories in the mind of a Jewish colleague. Coincidence……I think not!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

“Angels” on the Freeway

As I sat in the doctor’s office with anxiety and fear I heard the word no one wants to hear from their Orthopedist when they look at your X Ray, “Whoa!!!!!” And so began my journey into the world of hip replacement. Until that moment hip replacement surgery was for “old” people, people who were injured playing professional football or someone involved in a severe auto accident, but it most certainly didn’t apply to me, a young 57 year old!

If you’ve never had a hip problem please count your blessings. Something as simple as putting on a sock produces waves of excruciating pain and quickly becomes a two person operation. It also impacts your ability to sleep soundly, walk to the mailbox, chase your grandson around a soccer field, sit comfortably for long hours in a commercial airplane and walk to and from Shul on Shabbos.

Over the years I’ve chronicled the myriad people I’ve met and the adventures I’ve incurred while walking two or three miles to Shul. That walk was always an opportunity to shut down the business side of my brain and marvel at the wonders of nature all around me. It was a unique opportunity to recharge my spiritual batteries and for the first time all week totally, unconditionally RELAX!

Since I first arrived at my new home in McLean, VA I had noticed a discomfort in my left leg every time I climbed a set of stairs or walked more than a mile. As the weeks turned into months I was constantly in pain. That pain eventually brought me to the doctor who proclaimed his astonishment at the severity of my condition with the aforementioned “Whoa!” He then proceeded to inform me that I needed a complete hip replacement and the sooner the better because the pain would only intensify. Armed with this news I went home and discussed it with my wife. We decided to wait and see if the pain would subside.

Unfortunately the pain in my leg prevented me from walking the 5.2 roundtrip miles to and from Shul every Saturday so my attendance became sporadic at best. As the weeks turned into months I realized how much I missed Shul, how much I missed my “RELAX” time and how much my Neshama, my soul, missed my spiritual recharge time.

The day before Rosh Hashanah I convinced myself that despite the pain I was going to walk to Shul both days. When I woke up the morning of the first day my hip was killing me but I got dressed and started my journey at 8:15 a.m. The first mile of the journey is straight up hill and I have to be honest it was horrible. At times I was literally dragging my leg behind me. When I crested the hill I had to stop and literally catch my breath because of the pain. After a few moments the pain began to subside and I started to walk. After a few hundred yards I was faced with another problem, a huge construction project. The bridge I had to cross was under repair and the sidewalk had disappeared about three months before. In the past I had managed to dodge cars and trucks that literally passed inches from my body. Faced with having to do that again with a bad leg the situation almost brought me to tears. But a little voice in my head encouraged me to go on and I tentatively started to cross the “battle zone.”

As I made way across my leg actually started to feel better and before I knew it I had navigated the vehicle obstacle course and I was on my way with clear sailing ahead. About an hour later I arrived at Shul and I walked into services. During the next four hours my hip and leg started to tighten up and throb and I thought I was never going to be able to get home. When the service was over I hobbled out of the building and started the journey home. It took a few hundred yards before I felt better and for the rest of the walk I felt pretty darn good. When I arrived at the bridge I was once again concerned about having to dodge the traffic. Before I took my first step I noticed what appeared to be four men floating across the bridge. Being Rosh Hashanah I immediately thought “Oh my gosh, there are four angels leading me across the bridge!” Upon closer inspection they weren’t angels at all, but in fact they were four construction workers walking across a narrow “sidewalk” that I had never seen before. Several months before the workers had placed concrete barriers against the side of the bridge to protect themselves as they worked on various pieces of the structure. However, from the road the barrier created an optical illusion and the narrow walkway was impossible to see. I had walked across this bridge at least ten times, each time taking my life in my hands and had never seen the protected walkway. As the realization hit me I recalled something my Dad has said to me a thousand times, “Steve sometimes you look but you do not see.” Never had that statement made more sense. I immediately walked over to the first barrier and sure enough there was a 12 inch wide pathway across the structure. Before you could say “More potato Kugel please!” I was skipping along, safely protected from the ten wheelers and mini vans rushing swiftly past, inches from my head. A few minutes later I was safely ensconced in my home.

As I sat in my favorite chair I couldn’t help but wonder at my good fortune. On the Shabbos mornings when my leg was not too painful I had traveled across that bridge dodging the big rigs along the way. This time because my leg slowed me down I came to the bridge at the exact moment four construction “angels” were walking to their job site. Five minutes earlier or five minutes later and I’d have missed them and never discovered the hidden walkway. Thanks to that one moment I now had a safe and quick way across the bridge, a path that would ensure my safety until the two year project was completed. Coincidence…. I think not!

Many years earlier my mentor Rabbi Chuni Vogel and I were sitting in his sukka when it started to rain. I immediately wanted to go inside where it was dry and warm. The Rabbi picked up a slice of waterlogged challa, and pointing it in my general direction said, "Shloma Yakov, no one ever said a mitzvah had to be easy. For 3311 years your ancestors have been performing the mitzvah of 'dwelling' in a sukka. In Alaska right now it's ten degrees below zero and 'the frozen chosen,' as Alaska's Chabad Rabbi Yosef Greenberg calls his congregation, are celebrating Shabbat in the sukka with joy and vigor. Take your mind off the rain and concentrate on the joy of fulfilling G-d's mitzvah of eating in the sukka and honoring the memory of your ancestors who lived in dwellings just like these for forty years." He waited a moment for his words to sink in and then added, "But... if the rain really bothers you, feel free to go inside." I chose to remain in the sukka and it was one of the best nights of my life.

His words, “No one ever said a mitzvah had to be easy” has been my mantra for the last 15 years. Every time I am afraid to try something new or do something old I think back to those words. As I walked across the bridge with a painful hip, dragging my leg behind me his words once again inspired me. And I also thought of one other thing he shared with me, “Shloma Yakov when you complete a mitzvah you never know who is watching and who may be inspired by that one act. You never know who needs just a little bit of encouragement to do their own mitzvah.”

The next Shabbos I walked across the bridge with a smile on my face, Tzitzis blowing in the breeze and a leg/hip that still was in constant pain. But I also thought, “Maybe a fellow Yid will go by and see a member of his or her “tribe,” wearing a yarmulke and tzitzis, limping across the bridge on an “invisible” walkway and be inspired to try a mitzvah themselves. As Rabbi Vogel likes to say, “You never know when someone is watching.” And in this case it could be hundreds if not thousands of people along a busy route through the middle of Tyson’s Corner Virginia. At the very least someone may say, “Wow check out the dude floating across that bridge!”

By the way I get my new hip in December. After that the only thing my doctor is going to say is “Whoa, nice drive down the middle of the golf course Steve!”

A Spiritual Ripple Finds Its Way Home

When I was a young boy I could sit for hours on the shores of Morgan’s Pond in my hometown of Waterford Connecticut watching the dragon flies dart in and out in search of a cool drink as the fish popped to the surface in an attempt to snag a tasty water bug gliding across the pond’s glistening waters. Every once in awhile I’d pick up a pebble and toss it into the pond and watch with fascination as the ripples would cascade across the surface.

It has been many years since I threw those pebbles into Morgan’s Pond, and a long time since I thought about those wonderful, lazy days of my youth. But recently an event occurred that brought me right back to those soothing shores and the ripples that caused such fascination.

One Tuesday I arrived at work and noticed a rather official looking letter on my desk. Opening it with some trepidation I discovered that a Federal agency had decided to audit one of my Human Resources programs. Despite the fact that I run a tight ship I was horrified that the “Feds” were coming into my shop. Although I had never dealt with this branch of government before, I immediately felt like I was guilty of something. I had absolutely no reason to feel that way, but come on, these were the “Feds” and they were coming after me.

Unfortunately for me, the visit was 30 days from the time I received the letter. Thirty days is a verrrry long time when you are dealing with the unknown. As the days and weeks went by I became more and more despondent. In the middle of the night I’d wake up and imagine all kinds of negative scenarios. The people I worked with, the people I lived with and the people I davened with all began to notice my unexplained plunge into despair.

It got to a point where I became clinically depressed and the people that cared about me were extremely concerned. I had never, ever been to such a dark place. About a week before the “visit” my Chabad Rabbi Mendel Cunin sat me down and demanded to know what was wrong with me. I was so distraught that I could hardly get the words out to explain the situation. And in truth, I must have sounded like a raving lunatic because unless you were in my shoes, my concerns just didn’t make sense.

Rabbi Cunin gave me many words of encouragement but I didn’t want to hear them. I mean that’s his job right? He is supposed to try and make me feel better. At least that is what my silly mind was telling me at the time. The Yetzer HaRa, the evil inclination, had a firm grasp on my mind.

The Shabbos before the “visit” I was davening in Shul hardly listening to the Rabbi and barely reading the words on the pages of my siddur. Negative thoughts bombarded my mind about what was going to happen on Monday and the possible loss of my job. Minute after minute, hour after hour, I slid down into a deeper, darker depression.

When the davening was over, I robotically walked over to the tables where the Kiddush was set up and took my regular seat at the table. The herring was passed around, the cups were filled with a little l’chaim and my buddies all engaged in a discussion about that week’s Parsha. After a few minutes of spirited discussion Rabbi Cunin pulled out a copy of N’shei Chabad Magazine and asked me to read a story he’d marked to the gathering. Now I have to tell you, reading a story to my friends, saying anything at all was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. I mean didn’t the Rabbi get it? I was in a very bad place and I had no desire whatsoever to participate in this ridiculous exercise. When the magazine got to me I attempted to pass it to the fellow sitting next to me Mark Edwards. But before I could do so the Rabbi, in a very authoritative voice, insisted that I read it.

In a barely audible voice I began to recite the three page story. It was a story written by gentleman living in Australia who was a Baal Teshuva, a Jew who becomes more observant. The author was sharing his story about his personal spiritual journey. While reading I couldn’t help but appreciate that the Rabbi was trying to boost my spirits with this inspiring tale. However, I was in no mood to hear it. I felt that this gentleman must be a very nice fellow and his story was inspirational, but this was simply not the time for me to hear his story. I had my own problems to deal with.

I completed the first page with a deep sigh and once again tried to pass the magazine to my friend Marc. The Rabbi “insisted” I continued to read. Not willing to make a scene I continued to do so. I finished the second page and thought what the heck I am doing here. These people just don’t understand what I am going through and the Rabbi has me reading this “Rah Rah” story. Does he really think this is going to cheer me up?

I continued on and about half way down the third page I read something so incredible it made me feel like my entire body had suddenly been hit with an enormous electric shock. It was as if my heart had stopped and the doctor hit me with a defibrillator to restart it. I finished the sentence and started to cry. I tried to continue but I just couldn’t utter a word. I sat there stunned and passed the magazine to Marc. This time the Rabbi didn’t say a word. Marc finished reading the article as I sobbed in silence. When he was done the entire congregation was silent as they waited for me to say something. Overcome with emotion all I could do was mumble a thank you to the Rabbi for sharing the story with me.

As the moments ticked by I started to feel better. At the conclusion of the Kiddush I walked outside with my buddies and started my journey home. About 100 yards into my journey up the mountain I started to cry and no matter how much I tried I could not stop. By the time I arrived at my front door and kissed the Mezuzah I was all cried out. As I walked through the front door I felt “different.” I was no longer in that deep, dark place. I was no longer afraid. In fact as the weekend continued I progressively felt better and better.

On Monday morning I got up and davened with a renewed vigor. I wasn’t over confident but I wasn’t afraid either. When I walked through the front door of my office building the gentleman charged with conducting the audit was waiting for me in the lobby. When we sat down in my office, he explained what he wanted to do and what he wanted to see and the process began. Four days later he met with my boss and me and shared that he had found only one small violation and with a small adjustment we could rectify the situation and all would be well.

Stunned, I thanked him assured him the correction would be made, and walked him to the door. Over the course of the next few days we corrected the problem, sent the official notification to the auditor and put the issue behind us. The next Shabbos I was ready to “party” with my boys! I shared the results of the audit, everyone applauded and we noshed on a little herring and said l’chaim.

After numerous “Good Shabbos” goodbyes I began my walk home. As I stepped to the street and headed up Moana Lane my mind drifted back to the pebbles I used to throw into Morgan’s Pond and the resulting ripples I watched with such naïve fascination. I couldn’t help but wonder at what I’d read the week before in N’shei Chabad Magazine that shocked me and guided me out of the darkness and back to the light. The author of the article an Australian named Geoffrey Zygier wrote that his spiritual journey started after he read a story in the L’Chaim newsletter about another fellow Jew, living in Wilmington Delaware. The story titled ‘Grandpa Charlie Would Be Proud’ was written by no one other than yours truly 10 years earlier, shortly after I’d made the first Kiddush of my life at Rabbi Chuni Vogel’s Shabbos table. The mystical pebble G-d helped me toss into the spiritual waters after that first Kiddush generated a Holy Spark that rippled its way through the spiritual waters of the universe for ten long years before finally finding its way back to the “shores” of Rabbi Mendel Cunin’s Shabbos table, in Reno Nevada, on the exact day Shlomo Yakov ben Moishe Pinchus needed it most.

Coincidence…..I think not.

My Haftorah Speech to Reno congregation

A Jewish family had twin boys whose only resemblance to one another was their looks.
If one felt it was too hot, the other thought it was too cold. If one said the radio was too loud, the other claimed the volume needed to be turned up.
Opposite in every way, one was an eternal optimist, the other a doom & gloom pessimist.
Just to see what would happen, on the twins' birthday their father Chaim loaded the pessimist's room with every imaginable toy and game. The optimist's room he loaded with horse manure.
That night the father passed by the pessimist room and found him sitting amid his new gifts crying bitterly.
"Why are you crying George" the father asked.
"Because my friends will be jealous, I'll constantly need batteries, and my toys will eventually get broken."
Passing the optimist twin's room, the father found him dancing with joy in the pile of manure. "What are you so happy about Shlomi?" he asked.
To which his optimist twin replied, "There's got to be a pony in here somewhere!"
True it is an old joke but it really exemplifies part of this week’s parsha.
Here were the Jewish people, who only days before had witnessed the greatest miracles in the history of mankind and they were whining and complaining in the desert. They had seen the 10 plagues destroy the will of their oppressors in Mitzriem; they had seen a glorious cloud-like column protect their rear guard from the Pharaoh’s soldiers during the day and a miraculous column of fire by night. They’d seen the sea literally open up in front of them, they’d walked across the dry ocean floor and then they saw the waters thunder down upon their adversaries, drowning all but Pharoh. They’d stood before Sinai and heard the awe-inspiring voice of G-d himself. They’d seen Moses descend from the mountain with the 10 Commandments, not once but twice. They witnessed food literally raining down from heaven to sustain them and help them thrive during their journey.
And yet despite all of these miraculous events, there still were a handful of naysayers who complained that they were better off under their brutal task masters in Mitzrayim where they were beaten, violated and killed, all because at least as slaves they had fresh meat and fish to eat.
At one point in the Torah G-d says to Moshe Rabbeinu that we are “a stiff necked people.” Over and over again throughout the Torah we see evidence of this disappointing character flaw. Yet despite this flaw, we as a people, one of the smallest groups in history, have had a wondrous impact on mankind. Despite our small numbers, our people have been awarded over 80 percent of all the Noble prizes for science ever presented, we’ve found the cure for countless numbers of deadly diseases and we’ve given the world a set of laws that the most powerful nations on earth have used as the basis for their own secular legal systems.
Like our ancestors who stood in the desert so many thousands of years ago, we too are at a crossroad here in Reno. We are about to embark on the next phase of our incredible journey when we move to the new Shul two blocks from here. But like the Hebrews in the Torah who stood in the desert and complained about the lack of meat while miracles abounded around them, we too as a congregation sometimes sit around, focusing on trivial issues while surrounded by our own miraculous events.
Please allow me to share what I believe are the 10 miracles or Chabad of Northern Nevada. One for each year the Cunins have been here in Reno.
1. After spending 20 years learning from, and being inspired by, the Rebbe in Crown Heights, a fuzzy faced young Rabbi named Mendel Cunin was asked by his uncle in Los Angeles to create a Chabad House right here in Reno. A place where generations of rabbinical students had spent their summer vacations looking for elusive Jews in this western frontier town. Chazzan Paul Katz and I met many of these now esteemed Rabbis at the Chabad World Convention last year in New Jersey. And each of them marveled that such a thing could be accomplished here in Reno where during their numerous past visits they saw more cows than Jews.
2. A few years latter a young Sarah Lender accepted Rabbi Cunin’s invitation to become his wife and Rebbetzin of Reno and their lives as a spiritual leadership team began.
3. Without a penny in the bank the Cunins orchestrated the building of one of the most beautiful Mikvahs in the world. A building that is in constant use by locals and visitors alike.
4. The first few members of the original congregation grew tired of davening in the Cunin living room and decided to take an open air carport and build a small but spiritually charged sanctuary for the four or five men who showed up regularly to daven on Shabbos. I ask you to look around and marvel at what a few committed souls accomplished many years ago.
5. Several years later we witnessed the arrival of the triplets followed by their sisters and brother and their mere presence energized and captivated the attention of our entire community.
6. Next, a young or maybe not so young doctor showed up and became the Chazzan of Chabad of Northern Nevada; carrying on a legacy that he earned at the feet of Chazzan Boris Fisch, may he rest in peace.
7. Forming a spiritual partnership with the Rabbi and Rebbetzin, Doctor Paul Katz started the first frume preschool in the history of Northern Nevada. A school that today continues to grow and flourish and serve as a beacon of learning for our entire community.
8. Several years later the Rabbi inspired the community to come together to commission the creation of a brand new Torah for the Chabad House, a feat that usually takes new congregations decades to accomplish.
9. And just months ago the Farahi family miraculously and generously made their corporate headquarters on Moana and Clover available, exclusively to Chabad for their new Northern Nevada headquarters.
10. And now just one decade after the Cunins first arrived in Reno, the wonderful people in this room are leading the campaign to accomplish what some folks could only dream about a decade ago and complete what we fondly call
“The Biggest Little Shul in the World!”
These ten miracles of faith have enabled us to be here today, flourishing as a congregation and a community. Yet despite all of these miraculous events we still occasionally find ourselves grousing and complaining about little things. Little things my friends that in the long run just don’t matter. At times we behave just like our ancestors who were surrounded by the greatest miracles in the history of mankind, and either failed to see them or took them for granted.
But just like our ancestors who persevered and overcame their own flaws to set an example of faith and virtue for the rest of the world, we as a congregation are at a crossroads in our own spiritual journey.
Right down the street is a building which one day soon will serve as both a Shul and a school, focused on training the next generation about the history and joys of Judaism.
But it also serves as a much larger metaphor for our entire community. For it is also a spiritual bus station, a station that will one day see a divine bus powered by Mashiac make a brief stop in Reno to pick us up and take us all to our promised destination in Eretz Yisroel.
So the question each of us has to ask ourselves is simple. Are we going to ride that spiritual pony at a full gallop to the bus or our we going to continue to focus on the non important aspects of life that pile up on us like so much manure, paralyzing us spiritually so it is more challenging to make our way to the bus.
I say we take a moment to appreciate the joyous miracles surrounding us, our beautiful, growing congregation, and the entire Cunin family as we prepare our spiritual bus station, filling it with Torah mitzvahs, educating our children and inspiring our fellow Jews so Mashiac will arrive here soon and take us all to a world of perpetual Shabbos in the land of our ancestors.
Thank you and Good Shabbos!

The Gardner's Son

Back in the early 1970s money was very tight in my family. To make ends meet my Dad had several jobs. He worked full time at Pfizer Chemical making Penicillin. When he finished at Pfizer he jumped into his truck and put up TV antennas on local rooftops or he drove off to one of his clients where he was a professional gardener. This was a time before the invention of the Weed Whacker, so when it was time to clip the grass around the fence posts of one of the estates; I got down on hands and knees and started to pull. Even though it was over 35 years ago I can’t go by a picket fence without cringing. There was many a day I’d go home with bloody fingers after pulling blades of grass by hand for hours on end.

I can still remember one particular day when I had what seemed like miles of fence to weed. Almost in tears I got up and complained that I’d been doing this same task for hours and I still had a long way to go. Dad came up to me and turned me around and said, “Instead of looking at how much you have left to do, turn around and admire how much you’ve already accomplished.” That one life lesson has stayed with me all these long years as my life’s journey unfolded.

Over the course of the last year I felt like I was constantly bombarded with bad news. We saw the tragedy in Mumbai, the implosion of the economy, the building tensions in the Iran, Iraq and Afghanistan and for the first time in many, many years I found myself in a spiritual depression. A depression so deep, so dark, that I couldn’t navigate out of it by myself.

Several days before Rosh Hashanah two young “Roving Rabbis,” Yossi Silverstein and Shalom Ber Cunin came to Reno to meet with Jews throughout Northern Nevada. Now this was not the first time I’d met with young Rabbis that spent their summers meeting with Jews in far off places. It was however the first time I ever felt compelled to invite them to spend one on one time with me. So no one was more surprised than me when suddenly one Shabbos I invited them to come to my office at the newspaper and “learn.”

Moments after the invitation left my lips I asked myself, “Why did I just do that, what the heck did I just do? They are here to meet with unaffiliated Jews, Jews who are lost and need help. I don’t need help. I have been a member of Chabad for more than a decade. What could these two young guys possibly teach me?” As it turned out…..quite a bit!

We arranged to meet midday on the following Friday. Around 1:30 my receptionist called and said there were two young men here to see me. They entered my office carrying a shofar and some reading material for us to discuss. Before we started learning Yossi raised the shofar to his lips and blew. It was all I could do not to laugh because the non Jews in the immediate area had no idea what was going on in my office but there was little doubt they heard and felt the power of the shofar.

After he was finished the three of us started to talk. We talked for more than an hour and never did get to the reading material they’d brought with them. We spoke of many things over the course of our time together but at one moment I found myself opening up and discussing my spiritual depression. Until that moment I had not discussed my feelings with a single soul, not my wife, not my Dad, not my Mom nor my Rabbi.

For months I had slowly and depressingly drowned in a spiritual morass that had relentlessly drained my energy and emotions. Yet in less than an hour these two 20-something Rabbis got me to open up about my feelings, ask questions and probe the depths of my personal despair. In less than an hour they pushed me to reexamine my entire spiritual journey from its humble beginnings in New London Connecticut to its many travels through Palms Springs, Delaware, Oregon, Nevada and beyond. In less than an hour these two young, passionate men reminded me to stop looking at how much more I had yet to accomplish and take a moment to “turn around” spiritually and remember all I had experienced and seen over the past 20 years. They took time out of their precious day to take this one, lone Jew by the spiritual hand and remind him that Hashem has always been with him and will never leave his side now or in the future. These two young men reminded me of the many small but powerful miracles I had witnessed over the years, many of which I had chronicled in this space. In less than an hour these two committed young men had helped me turn around and remember the joys of my spiritual garden and the many miraculous moments it had produced.

I am not sure who was more energized or amazed when they left that day, Yossi and Shalom Ber or me. It was one of those special moments that one never forgets. It was one of those moments that recharges one’s personal spiritual batteries and propels them to take the next spiritual step on their life’s journey. It was one of those special moments when one looks around and thanks Hashem for the small as well as the large miracles he provides each and every day. It was one of those days when the vision of the Lubavitcher Rebbe Menachem Schneerson, of blessed memory, manifests itself right there in front of you. Years ago he sent out young emissaries just like Yossi and Shalom Ber to find and help Jews just like me, a mission that continues on today in towns small and large all around the world.

As I sat alone in my office that afternoon tears streamed down my face. The pain and doubts that had almost consumed me, literally choking my spirit and causing me extreme heartache had suddenly and thankfully disappeared in the blink of an eye. As I watched them drive away I couldn’t help but ponder that Rosh Hashanah was just a few days away. Rosh Hashanah a time when we go to Shul, and recognize Hashem as our King, and ask him to grant our families and our people around the world a happy, joyful, and prosperous new year.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I contemplated the notion that the end of one of my most challenging spiritual years was almost at hand and more importantly the beginning of a fresh, vibrant, hopeful one was just days away. I had forgotten the lesson I had learned in the garden so many years before. I had forgotten to reflect on the wonders and miracles that happen all around us each and every day if we simply just take the time to look.

It took two young men of faith and commitment to remind me. It took two young Rabbis who miraculously appeared out of nowhere one fine day in Reno, two young Rabbis that had no more of an agenda than to help their fellow Jews in need, two young Rabbis that embraced me just when I needed them the most.

Coincidence I think not!

These People Must Love Us A Lot

By Steve Hyatt
Kugelhead.blogspot.com

Here is a simple question, which may have a complex answer. When was the last time you gave away something you truly treasured or gave up a piece of your own happiness to strengthen and enhance someone else’s life?

Chances are the answers are not often, and if you did make such a sacrifice, it was probably to benefit a very close family member. The idea of giving up an important part of one’s life for a total stranger is beyond the comprehension of most people. Yes, thankfully many give charity, and yes many volunteer to help others in need. What I am really talking about are selfless acts and deeds that are beyond compare and in some cases understanding. During my first visit to the Chabad Lubavitch community of Crown Heights in Brooklyn, New York I was both inspired and humbled by my experience.

Of course I had heard of Crown Heights since first discovering Chabad in 1983. Throughout the years myriad Chabad Rabbis had shared their personal stories about their lives and events in this unique Jewish community. Based on their vivid stories I envisioned the hustle and bustle of life in this tiny enclave and always promised myself that someday I would see what the “fuss” was all about. I just never imagined it would take me 26 years to get there.

In February of 2009 I was delighted to learn that my good friend Rabbi Meir Perelstein was engaged. He and his Kallah, Chanie Tarlow, planned to be married in Crown Heights the following month and invited me to share their glorious moment with them. As much as I wanted to be there the economic challenges surrounding me caused me to hesitate. After all, the economy was in shambles, the company I worked for was struggling and quite frankly, I was afraid of my personal economic future. Filled with trepidation I asked my Rabbi, Mendel Cunin, what I should do. His response was swift and without hesitation, “Steve the best thing to do when you don’t think you should or can afford to do something is to do it. You should eliminate the excuses and simply push ahead.”

Armed with his sage advice and the emotional support of my wife I accepted the invitation and made the appropriate arrangements. Shortly thereafter Rabbi Cunin informed me that he’d taken his own advice and had decided to join me. So together we set off on a grand adventure. We literally designed an itinerary that brought us to Crown Heights for a total of 36 hours. However, the true surprise was the final realization that these 36 hours were destined to be the most enlightening and inspiring of my Jewish life.

Upon our arrival in New York we embarked on a non stop journey of exploration. Our first stop brought us to "The Ohel" where the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, of righteous memory, was laid to rest. I am not sure what I expected but I was overcome with a feeling of peace, love and contentment during our entire time there. The Rabbi and I wrote out prayers for guidance and blessings and placed them at the Rebbe’s Ohel. We then proceeded to Crown Heights and spent a wonderful evening sharing a delicious meal, which included three styles of Kugel, with the Rabbis’ sister and her husband. After a restful night’s sleep I rendezvoused with the Rabbi at the main Chabad Shul, known to most folks simply as “770. Upon entering this historic facility I immediately felt like I had been hit with a jolt of spiritual electricity. Surrounded by hundreds of men davening, studying and discussing the issues of the day I felt liked I was plugged into the spiritual essence that permeates every cell of the building. During the course of the day we were allowed to enter the Rebbe’s office and his library, we saw the Chabad online school which now makes it possible for the children of the Schluchim from around the world to learn from home until they are old enough to attend a Yeshiva or Seminary, we even found our way to the world famous Schmurah Matzo factory where Passover matzos are prepared from start to finish in a scant 18 minutes. It was an intimate tour of this precious community that will remain emblazoned in my mind’s eye forever.

Toward the end of the day it was time for the wedding. At 4:30 sharp the Rabbi and I met at Oholei Torah Ballroom where the celebration was to take place. I watched in wonder as Meir recited from memory his Maamer, a Chassidic discourse written by the Rebbe that explains the different levels of the connection of man and wife, as well as the direct connection between G-d and Israel, and how both concepts unite as the Chossin and Kallah are wed.

At the conclusion of his recitation an unassuming man of many years slowly arose from his seat and started to play a soulful, captivating melody on his violin. As the violinist played on, Meir’s father and father-in-law tenderly grabbed his arms and started a procession that led to the women’s side of the room. As we slowly made our way to the Kallah the gentlemen in attendance set the mood as they quietly hummed an ancient Chassidic tune. When we finally arrived in front of the Kallah, Meir gently placed a veil on her head. This simple, moving, tender moment brought tears to my eyes as I witnessed this ancient testimony to love, modesty and family purity. As a group we made our way back to 770 and the actual wedding took place under the Chuppah in front of the Shul. I was mesmerized as the bride walked around her future husband seven times. I was captivated as close family members and friends read the Sheva Brachas or seven blessings and I cheered as the groom finally stepped on the glass marking the beginning of their lives together.

As the groom and his Kallah entered 770 to break their wedding day fast, the rest of us walked back to the wedding hall to await their return. In this traditional setting the room is separated by a mechitza, or short wall. The men celebrate on one side of the mechitza and the women on the other. After a delicious dinner the entertainer revved up his keyboard and the wedding hall exploded into a sea of joyful dancing. Even I, a 54 year old Connecticut-born Yankee, couldn’t resist the urge to jump into the frenetic activity on the dance floor. Before I knew what I was doing I was surrounded by an energetic mass of young and older men who exuded joy and love as they joined hands and celebrated with the Chosson.

When the evening finally came to a close I was both energized and exhausted. As I walked back to my hotel I could literally feel the tears of joy freezing on my cheeks in the frigid air. I had never felt so alive, so Jewish, and so happy in my entire life! This was what they meant by L’Chaim, to life!

Several hours later our 36 hours in Crown Heights came to an end and the Rabbi and I made our way back to the airport and eventually took off for the West coast. As I sat in my seat staring out the window I couldn’t help but wonder, how these Rabbis and their families could possibly leave Crown Heights, how they could give up that little bit of heaven on earth, that center of vibrant, pulsating Jewish life, to live in distant lands like Siberia, Thailand and Reno. Communities where there is little if any kosher food, Jewish schools, or close friends or family. Somewhere over Iowa it occurred to me that these Shluchim, these emissaries of the Rebbe must love their fellow Jews much more than we could ever possibly imagine. They willingly give up the comfort and joy of their Jewish communities to travel to tiny places on the globe to support, nurture and reach out to their fellow Jews, and they do so with little promise of financial reward or recognition. They do it because the Rebbe loved us, and they do it because they love us.

Before our visit to crown Heights I looked at Jewish life like a tourist reading a travel brochure; I’d seen Hawaii and it seemed real nice; but I’d never actually been there and smelled the ocean air, ate a pineapple or walked in the sand. After spending a mere 36 hours in Crown Heights I now possessed a clarity of vision I never knew existed. I’d seen, tasted, felt and participated in the activities of a thriving, energized, living, breathing Jewish community. It made me truly appreciate the personal sacrifices the Cunins have made for my community, motivating me to do even more to ensure our community also known as “The Biggest Little City in the World” appreciates and supports them and their efforts like never before.

L’Chaim!

The Rebbe Said....

"Never underestimate the power of a simple pure deed done from the heart. The world was not changed by people who move mountains, nor by those who lead the revolutions, nor by those whose purse strings tie up the world. Dictators are deposed, oppression is dissolved, and entire nations are transformed by a precious few acts of beauty, performed by a handful of unknown soldiers"

They Will Never Win

I have been associated with the Chabad Lubavitch Jewish outreach organization since 1983. Over the course of time I have met hundreds of Chabad Rabbis, their wives and children and believe I’ve gained a unique perspective about their commitment and outreach to Jews and non Jews around the world.

The recent horrific and tragic terrorist attacks in Mumbai both outraged and saddened me as I tried to fathom the heartbreaking loss of life. It now appears that over 125 innocent lives were lost during the 48 hour siege. Among the slaughtered innocents were a Virginia father and daughter attending a religious conference and the local Chabad Rabbi OBM Chabad Rabbi Gavriel Holtzbergand and his wife Rivka.

I will leave it to smarter and more informed scholars to debate the politics of the world and what led to this senseless slaughter. Instead I would like provide some perspective about these Chabad Rabbis and their families that have volunteered to leave the comfortable confines of their religious communities and move to lands far away to help their fellow Jews. Don’t let the black suits, classically cut hats and long beards fool you. These Rabbis are as different from one another as snowflakes in a snowstorm.

Yet they all share a similar passion for the men, women and children of the Jewish communities they serve. Each and every one of them has dedicated their lives to the advancement of Jewish learning at far off places around the globe. They are charged with the responsibility of setting up “shop” many miles from traditional centers of Jewish learning. Sometimes they are the first Rabbis to set foot in a city, state and/or country. Imagine what it must be like to move to Alaska, a place where there are more Moose than there are Jews.

These Chabad Rabbis, they’re not your grand parent’s Rabbis. With all due respect to that generation, these Rabbis are different. They welcome Jewish men and women with open, loving, undemanding spiritual arms. If you want to become a Torah scholar, then you’ve come to the right place. But if you never learned to read Hebrew and you just want to taste a potato kugel like your grandmother used to make, then there’s a place for you at Chabad as well.

It’s a place where all Jews are welcome. There are no demands, no expectations and no competition. You dictate what you want to learn and when you want to learn it. If you are willing to learn, they are willing to teach. Unconditional love and support is the norm.

If I seem to be over zealous in my praise of Chabad, then I am guilty as charged. I had a Bar Mitzvah when I was thirteen and on occasion, attended Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services. But that was the extent of my Jewish experience. Then many years ago I realized that I had a nagging, aching pain in my heart, a pain that no amount of personal success could repair. Yoga didn’t ease the pain. Meditating didn’t fill the void. Jogging endorphins didn’t anesthetize the hurt. Something was missing from my life. I was drowning in a sea of despair.

And then a Chabad Rabbi threw me a spiritual live preserver, literally saving my life. He served as my guide through a personal journey that has taken me to places I never dreamed possible. And throughout the journey, never once did he ask me for anything in return. He selflessly gave of himself and his family.

And just like the Rabbi that helped me so many years ago, Rabbi Holtzberg and his family were helping their fellow Jews in Mumbai. Since the dawn of humankind, people have been asking “Why do bad things happen to good people?” The scholars have their answers, religious leaders have theirs. I will not pretend to know.

What I do know is that no matter your politics, religious affiliation or national origin, the taking of innocent lives is not okay. There is a Talmudic expression that says, “"Whoever destroys the life of a single human being, it is as if he had destroyed an entire world; and whoever preserves the life of a single human being ... it is as if he had preserved an entire world.” In this case evil has claimed the lives of more than 125 people in an attempt to promote their own political agenda.

So what can we do right here in the Biggest Little City in the World to send a message to those who advocate destroying anything they don’t agree with? I say go out into the community and give charity, go spend quality time at your local house of worship, volunteer at a non profit organization, help those less fortunate, make a difference in someone’s life, march through the streets of Northern Nevada and proclaim to the world that enough is enough! In short, make a difference.

Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr. and Chabad’s spiritual leader OBM Lubavitcher Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, never lifted their hands in anger against another human being, but each, in their own way, changed the world forever.

Every journey starts with the first step. I implore you to take your own personal first step and let the terrorists know that no matter what they try to do, they will not and cannot succeed as long as righteous people around the world stand up against evil.

You Can Do It Steve; You can Do It

That's one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind," so said Astronaut Neil Armstrong as he stepped out of his space ship and tentatively placed his foot on the service of the moon on July 20, 1969. For those of us over 50 years of age, that is a moment in time etched in our memories forever. We know exactly where we were, what we were doing and whom we were with.

While not as significant or dramatic as the first foot on the moon, I had a similar feeling recently when I stepped up to the bema in the brand new Chabad of Delaware Shul. Long ago I had promised my friend and mentor Rabbi Chuni Vogel that when the new Shul was finally built I would chant my bar mitzvah Haftorah on that very bema. And so it was on Saturday, June 14, 2008, on the 41st anniversary of my bar mitzvah, I fulfilled that commitment.

My personal journey to the Delaware bema began in 1996 when I accepted an invitation from the Vogels to join them for Shabbos dinner. After munching on the best potato Kugel this side of Jerusalem, the rest as the saying goes, was history. I left Delaware in 1998 but I never lost touch with Rabbi Vogel. As my life journey took me to Oregon and then on to Nevada I continued to learn and push myself to do more Torah Mitzvot. As the years passed I pushed myself to become more adept at reading Hebrew so I could keep up in the Minyons, I learned many of the nuisances of Judaism that had previously mystified me and I became a more committed member of the Jewish communities in which we lived.

As the next 10 years unfolded I regularly practiced my Haftorah, BeHa'alotecha, gaining more and more confidence along the way. But no matter how much I practiced, the tune, oh that elusive tune, just never resonated with me. Sometimes on one of my walks through the majestic Sierra Nevada Mountains I sounded like a real Chazzan as I chanted the words while listening to Rabbi Vogel’s melodic voice on my IPOD. Yet every time I turned the IPOD off, the tune evaded me.

About three months before I was to chant my Haftorah in Delaware I had a dream. In the dream I was standing at a Shabbos table holding my Great Grandfather Charles Cooper’s Kiddush cup. As the wine spilled over the sides I chanted the ancient Kiddush blessing. It was one of those wonderful dreams where for a few short moments after opening your eyes you almost believe it was real. I was so moved that I decided to start calling my relatives to find out if anyone still had Great Grandpa Charlie’s Kiddush cup. This turned out to be a daunting task because Great Grandpa had been gone for more than 33 years. As I spoke with relative after relative the flame of hope began to fade. Finally, I spoke with my Aunt Vicki and she informed me that while she did not have his Kiddush cup, she did have several of his prayer books. After begging her to part with them she finally gave in to my pleas and sent them to me. Among the collection was a worn, coverless, dog eared book, about six inches thick. Upon closer examination I realized it was Great Grandpa’s Tanach. As I tenderly turned the pages, they felt like they’d disintegrate if improperly handled, I suddenly discovered my Haftorah!

At that moment I knew that Hashem had a different plan for me. I might not be able to make Kiddush with Great Grandpa’s Kiddush cup but I could chant my Haftorah out of his book. But before I could do that I knew I had to restore this treasured link to my Great Grandpa. After an exhaustive search I finally settled on a bookbinder that appeared to have an affinity for old books and possessed some knowledge of Yiddishkeit. Wrapping the book in enough bubble wrap to protect the Space Shuttle, I sent it off to the bookbinder. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. But finally one day I heard the doorbell ring and when I opened the door the UPS man handed me The Box!

With trembling hands I opened the box and began to carefully peel away each layer of bubble wrap. As I pulled away the last piece I observed the most beautiful book I’d ever seen. There lying in front of me were the pages of my Great Grandpa’s ancient book covered in deep chocolate brown leather with the words ‘Charles Cooper’s Tanach’ in gold lettering. As tiny tears of joy leaked from my eyes and slowly ebbed their way down my cheeks in small rivulets, I turned to beginning of my Haftorah. While the pages were faded and the notes on the words were difficult to read, I couldn’t help but marvel how glorious it was going to be to read my Haftorah from this glorious family treasure!

As I boarded United Airlines flight 188 bound for Philadelphia I knew that no matter how my Haftorah sounded I was going to do it with the spirit of Great Grandpa Charlie in my corner. Armed with that confidence I settled back into my aisle seat, put on my IPOD headphones, listened to the digitized voice of Rabbi Vogel and relaxed as my plane raced through the cloudless cobalt-blue sky.

When I finally arrived in Wilmington I was greeted with the worst heat wave they’d seen in years. The temperature hovered around a wilting 95 degrees and the humidity felt even worse. As I walked through the front doors of the magnificent new Shul, Rabbi Vogel greeted me with a joyous bear hug. After spending a few minutes touring the facility he brought me into the sanctuary so he could listen to me as I practiced my Haftorah. About midway through the practice session I was distracted by some movement on my left. It was then that I noticed a number of vehicles pulling into the front parking lot. To my astonishment I noticed what appeared to be a large number of esteemed Rabbis making their way into the Shul. All the while I keep thinking, “Please, please, please let them be stopping for directions to Philadelphia.” But nooooo, they were here for a wedding on Sunday and all of them, each and every one of them, would be joining us in Shul on Shabbos. The same Shabbos I’d be chanting my Haftorah.

I looked at Rabbi Vogel and asked him why he didn’t tell me. He replied with a chuckle that if he’d told me I’d have remained in Reno. With a deep sigh I admitted to myself that he was right and returned to the task at hand. Finally it was time to prepare for the arrival of Shabbos and practice came to a close. As I slowly closed Great Grandpa Charlie’s book I figured I was as ready as I’d ever be.

That evening I sat with the Rabbis munching on delectable delights, all the while doing my best to keep my panic to a minimum. “You can do this Steve, you can do this,” I kept telling myself. When Shabbos dinner was over and I finally laid my head on the pillow, I said a quiet prayer and drifted off to sleep. Surprisingly, I slept great and awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and enthusiastic.

Walking to Shul with my host and friend Doctor Michael Sugarman and his sons, I felt relaxed and at peace. During the course of the morning service I wrestled with alternating bouts of great confidence and high anxiety. It was tough enough to think about chanting my Haftorah in front of my friends, but in front of all these knowledgeable, experienced Rabbis? Oy Vey!

Finally I heard Rabbi Vogel call out my Hebrew name. As I put one foot on the bema I felt like I was taking one small step for me and one giant leap for my family. As I stood on the bema watching two members of the congregation place the cover on the Torah Rabbi Vogel whispered in my ear, “Shlomo Yakov this is your moment. Great Grandpa Charlie is with us, I am with you and everyone here loves you. Don’t hold back, have confidence, this is a moment you will remember forever!”

With his motivational words still resonating in my head I chanted the first blessing. My voice was a little shaky but the tune wasn’t bad. As I opened Great Grandpa Charlie’s Tanach to the appropriate page I felt a surge of additional confidence flow through my body. As the words and tune poured from my mouth I heard Rabbi Vogel humming the tune. Realizing that I had my “Human IPOD” on one side, the spirit of my beloved Great Grandpa on the other side and the glory of Hashem all around me, I pressed on. How did I do? You will have to ask those in attendance but let me say this; I’ve never had more fun or felt more alive than I did during those 14 minutes on the bema. When I finally stepped down, with Great Grandpa’s Tanach firmly in hand, I knew in my heart that these Chabad Rabbis and Rebbetzins commit their entire lives to their fellow Jews, Jews just like me who need help navigating their respective spiritual journeys through life. Their selfless love and support of their fellow Jews enable us to achieve levels we never thought possible. As I sat down in my chair a smile appeared on my face that simply refused to go away. Rabbi Vogel had helped me overcome my insecurities, push myself to new heights and reconnect with the spiritual flame of my departed Great Grandpa.

As I made my way to the afternoon Kiddush I knew that somewhere in heaven the Neshoma of Charles Cooper was smiling down upon me as he proudly told his beloved wife of 70 plus years, Lena Cooper, “That’s our boy down there, that is our Great Grandson, but Oy Veh he must have gotten his singing voice from your side of the family!”

Little “Stevie” Grows Up

As I walked up to the bema in what we affectionately call “The Biggest Little Shul in the World” in Reno Nevada which bills itself as the Biggest Little city in the World, my mind drifted back to June of 1967. Back in the days of the Boston Celtics dynasty and the Beatles, I had been studying for months for my bar mitzvah with my good friend Mark Silverman. Despite our continuous efforts to master the Hebrew we needed to know to successfully navigate our way trough our respective Bar Mitzvah’s, I was without a doubt the worst student in the history of my Shul. I was such an unmotivated student that my poor teacher Rabbi Lepidus made the decision to save me from an enormous embarrassment in front of friends and family and limited my participation to leading the Mincha service davening.

While the traditional Mincha service takes less than 20 minutes, under my stewardship it took a mind-numbing 45. I took so long plodding my way through the Amidah that the head Rabbi decided to dispense with his usual evening inspirational speech and go directly to the Maariv davening. Terrified, humiliated and exhausted I left the Shul and vowed never to step in front of a crowd again and most certainly to never ever lead any sort of davening service again. Of course that pledge was made at the age of 13 and I had yet to meet my first Chabad Rabbi.

Fifteen years later I had left my boyhood home and found myself living in Palm Springs California drifting through life like a sail boat without a rudder. One day your boat might land in Hawaii and the next in Antarctica. As a young boy I once read a wonderful quote by an unknown philosopher that said, “All the flowers, of all of the tomorrows, are found in the seeds of today.” Little did I know at the time that this quote would epitomize my adult spiritual life. For it was there in the hot, dry, desert community of Palm Springs that the seeds of my spiritual journey were planted. The “farmer” in question was introduced to me by a close friend named Mindy. She cajoled me over and over again until I finally agreed to meet her friends, Rabbi and Rebbetzin Denebeim.

Any good farmer will tell you that even the best seeds in the world won’t fully grow to fruition until the ground is fertile and properly prepared. And in my case my spiritual field just wasn’t ready. Despite my overt reluctance to learn and grow, Rabbi Denebeim never gave up on me. Year after year I received invitations to Shabbos dinner and requests to join him in the Sukkah for a meal. While I would through him the occasional “bone” and accept an invitation, I just wasn’t into it, the “ground” just wasn’t ready!

In 1995 I moved to Wilmington Delaware and unknown to me the tenacious Rabbi Denebeim called the local Chabad Rabbi Chuni Vogel and told him “There is this Jewish guy named Steve Hyatt……” Taking the spiritual baton from Rabbi Denebeim, Rabbi Vogel called me and invited me to Shabbos dinner. In typical fashion I made up an excuse and politely declined. Several years went by and one day I returned from a business trip and sitting on my desk was what I thought was a pizza box. When I opened it I discovered the toastiest looking matzo I’d seen in my life. It was of course a box of Shmura Matzah. Attached to the box was a note from the Rabbi inviting me to join him for services on Passover.

Now a lot had changed over that two year period and something inside me said to call the Rabbi. That something, as I now know, was my Neshoma crying out for some Jewish nourishment. Following the instructions of that inner voice I picked up the phone and called the Rabbi. That following Friday I went to his home for Shabbos dinner and quite frankly I never left. The spiritual ground that had to that point been barren and fallow was now suddenly quite fertile, vibrant and accepting. Every time the Rabbi showed me something new, I wanted to know more. And in typical Chabad fashion he was ready to show me as much as I could handle.

Time went on and one day I found myself transferred to Oregon where I met another Chabad Rabbi, Rabbi Wilhelm who once again nurtured the seeds of spirituality Rabbi Denebeim had planted so many years before. When I moved to Reno and discovered Chabad of Northern Nevada and Rabbi and Rebbetzin Cunin I knew that I was ready for those seeds to fully flourish and bloom. I committed myself to the pursuit of learning how to read Hebrew well enough so I could keep up in the daily, Shabbos and Holiday services. I dedicated a period of time each day to read part of the weekly Torah parsha, studying the commentaries and the thoughts of our sages. And to my ultimate surprise I took a plunge into the Mikvah for the first time. But never, ever, EVER in my wildest dreams did I ever think about getting back up in front of a congregation and leading the davening.

I felt like the thin adult who was the fat child in grade school. No matter how good you look as an adult, you sometimes find a moment in life where you are once again that fat little boy from yuor childhood. And that is exactly how I felt about leading the davening. In my mind it didn’t matter how well I learned Hebrew, the tunes or the cadence. In my mind I was still little 13 year old Stevie Hyatt who was traumatized at his bar mitzvah. In my mind I was once again going to stumble and bumble my way through the prayer book, horribly embarrassing myself in front of friends and family. Of course that is not what Rabbi Cunin had in mind.

It was a typical end of summer day as my Dad and I walked down the mountain to attend services at Chabad of Northern Nevada. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the temperature was a delightful 70 degrees and the birds were chirping away as they flew to and fro searching for their breakfast. As Dad and I walked into Shul Rabbi Cunin was talking with a couple of our buddies when he turned to me and said, “Steve, Paul (the gentleman who usually leads our davening) isn’t here today, why don’t you take over the davening when Moishe (the Rabbi’s son) is finished with the Psalms and continue until the reading of the Torah.”

In one fell swoop I was 13 and terrified. The Rabbi looked at me as if he were thinking, “Shlomo Yakov this is a piece of Kugel, make like Mr. Nike and "Just do it." Every fiber of my being screamed out nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! But my Neshoma must have grabbed hold of my vocal cords because I heard myself saying, “Ah, sure Rabbi, no problem.” “Great” he said, “Moishe lets get started.”

As Moishe made his way through the davening my mind kept screaming, “Slow down Moishe this is going way to fast!” Page after page went by when I suddenly heard Moishe reading the last paragraph of his portion of the davening. I was standing very close to the Shul exit door. I figured I could easily out run the Rabbi if I started now. Just as little “Stevie” Hyatt was going to bolt, my father started to chuckle. He reminded me what happened to him and my grandfather Fritz at my Bris 53 years earlier. He told me the Rabbi came over and asked, “Are you the father?” When my Dad nodded yes the Rabbi said, “Good, you come up to the Torah when I call you and say this” and he pointed to the Siddur. Dad immediately started to panic as he frantically studied the text. My grandfather started laughing at him when the Rabbi came back and asked, “And you, you are the Grandfather?” After reluctantly nodding yes, the Rabbi said, “Good, you come next.” Immediately Grandpa lost his smile and started studying frantically as well. Apparently little “Stevie” Hyatt wasn’t the only family member to get a bit nervous when directed to appear in front of a congregation!

The story brought a smile to my face. It couldn't be that bad since both my Dad and Grandpa had successfully survived the experience. So I figured “I am in the safest place in the world, a Chabad Shul. These guys all love me and want me to be successful and best of all most of them are glad it’s me and not them about to stand up in front of the bema.” So as Moishe finished his portion of the davening I got up, adjusted my tallis and walked up to the bema to assume the position.

I began a little shaky, picked up a little steam during the Shema and then felt much more comfortable during the Amidah. All the while a little voice inside was saying, “Little Stevie simply wasn’t ready 40 years ago. It took a long time for his spiritual field to be nurtured and become fertile.” In reality it took a whole team of “gardeners” to cultivate this fertile soil so the seeds of Torah could grow. But these Chabad “Farmers,” these wonderful Rabbis and Rebbetzins so love their fellow Jews that they are willing to patiently wait as long as necessary to see their fellow Jews grow and flourish in a safe, nurturing, nonjudgmental environment.

As I held the Torah in my arms and chanted the Shema I couldn’t help but thank and admire my team of Rabbis; Lapedus, Denebeim, Vogel, Wilhelm and Cunin and wonder at their patience, love and commitment. Each in his own turn had nurtured my spiritual field and each in his own turn shared this wonderful, triumphant moment with me. I’d be lying if I said it was “A Piece of Kugel,” but it was much easier than I thought. At least this time I was fast enough so the Rabbi could give his Shabbos sermon to the congregation. And if all of this wasn’t enough, young 7 year old Rochel Cunin told my mother Golda that I was “…pretty good, a little slow, but pretty good.”

Armed with that knowledge I went home and started practicing for the next time business would take Paul out of town and Rabbi Cunin asked me to help out with the davening. As you read this I am working hard to improve my reading speed. I am bound and determined to hear my 7 year old friend Rochel Cunin say, “Good job Steve, much faster this time!”

Teachers Come in All Sizes

Almost every adult can recall a second grade, middle, or high school teacher that changed their lives forever. As Jewish adults we also can point to a Rabbi who made an impact on our lives as children, or as in my case, as late bloomers. Whether it was as a child or later in life as an adult, these lessons usually come from wizened men with full bodied beards and caring eyes. So it was with disbelief that my most recent spiritual lesson came from two 6 year olds that stand just over four and a half feet tall.

Like many late bloomers, I am not a master of reading Hebrew. I can, as they say, get by, but the only way to gain real proficiency is to practice. And there lies the rub. I am fine when it comes to the weekday davening, because with the exception of holidays, the text of the weekday morning, afternoon and evening davening doesn’t change much from day to day. Over time, the repetition of each service enables you to become more confident and competent with the Hebrew words and one day you are stunned to see you can keep up with the experienced readers. The day you finish Ashrai with the entire congregation is always a day to remember.

But the Shabbos morning service is much more challenging. First of all you only read it once a week, Secondly, the text is much longer and involves prayers you simply don’t say during the weekday davening. Now unless you practice the Shabbos morning prayers during the week, you simply don’t develop the same proficiency as you do with the weekday payers.

So over the years I have found myself reading the English words when I fall behind. Obviously I am more comfortable and proficient with the English, so I tend to use it as a crutch when I get behind. It is a catch 22 because if I don’t practice the Hebrew I don’t get better, but if I read the entire Hebrew text I fall way behind. Being a competitive guy I hate falling behind, so I am embarrassed to admit that up until a few weeks ago, I took the easy way out and read the English text when I found myself falling behind.

To tell you the truth I was comfortable with this situation until one of the Cunin triplets, Chana, rushed up to me a few minutes into the Shabbos morning service and asked me to show her where we were in the Siddur. I looked at her with superior eyes and pointed to page 159 of the Siddur. With the questioning eyes only a child possesses she looked up at me and said, “Why are you pointing to the English words.” Quicker than you can say, “More Kugel please” I blushed a scarlet red and pointed to the Hebrew text on the right hand page and babbled some incoherent explanation. As Hanna scurried away I couldn’t get her question out of my mind. Here was a small child, standing in front of me, asking me an honest and sincere question. Why indeed I asked myself. “Because it is easier this way,” I answered myself. Echoing the words of numerous Chabad Rabbis I’ve met over the years I asked myself, “Since when is the easy way the right way I?”

Just as I was contemplating this perplexing dilemma I heard a small deep, throated voice off to my left. The voice was slowly and methodically sounding out the Hebrew words to the prayers I was supposed to be reading. The voice was annunciating every letter, every syllable with great care and clarity. As I looked up from my Siddur, Hanna’s 6 year-old brother Moshe was standing proudly next to his father, Rabbi Mendel Cunin, reading the last line of each of the Psalms in the first part of the Shabbos service. Without a moment’s hesitation, self-consciousness or inhibition Moshe proudly sounded out the words for all to hear. As he came to the conclusion of each line he annunciated the last word of each sentence with gusto and an arm pump that would make golfer Tiger Woods proud.

As the weeks went on Moshe gained confidence and his speed noticeably increased. He obviously spent time with his father practicing the davening, gaining greater skill and proficiency along the way. One Saturday morning as my Dad and I strolled along the two mile walk to Shul my mind wandered away and I started to think about Moshe and his passion for davening. I couldn’t help by wonder why I, a 52 year young man, was so reluctant to follow Mosihe’s example and start reading the Hebrew text for Shabbos as well.

Truthfully, other than admitting I was a little lazy, I couldn’t come up with a good answer. So as we passed the halfway point of our journey I turned to my Dad and told him that beginning today I was going to be just like Moshe and start reading nothing but the Hebrew words. When we arrived at Shul I was determined not to take the easy way out and revert back to the English text.

When the davening began I found myself falling behind almost immediately. The old fear of being left behind began to creep into my brain. I was about to start reading the English text when I heard that distinctive deep, throaty melodious voice drift into my ears. Like a powerful energizing force Moshe’s rendition of the Hebrew text pulled me back to my pledge and I began to recite the Hebrew. In order to keep up I started reading as much of the beginning of each paragraph as I could until I heard Moshe start reading the last line of the paragraph. I’d jump to the last line as well and we’d finish together. I would quickly go to the next line and read as fast as I could. This ‘competition’ between the 52 year old and the 6 year old was all in my mind but it compelled me to push myself beyond my perceived limitations. When Moshe started the last line I’d drop down to join him. In this way I could keep up with the service and read as much Hebrew as possible.

Over the last month my speed has improved dramatically. In most cases I am almost done with each paragraph when Moshe begins his recitation. We now finish each paragraph at about the same time and I mentally share his arm pump to emphasize the last word. But I have to admit that while my speed and proficiency have improved so has Moshe’s. I’ve accepted the fact that it will only be a matter of time before I am struggling to keep up with him as he zips through the Hebrew. But to tell you the truth that’s okay with me. No one ever said the student had to be better or faster than the teacher. Moshe may soon surpass me in skill, speed, and proficiency but all is not lost. I am still faster than his younger brother Dovid who as I write this is 6 months old. I figure if I work hard, practice and stay committed I will have a good four years to get ready for my new teacher.

Come to think of it, four years may not be long enough. I better go practice.

Rabbi’s Prescription: Take a Tallis and Teffilin and Call me in the Morning

Several years ago, as I sat in a soggy Succa in Wilmington, Delaware, with a piece of extremely wet sckca sitting on my nose, I asked Rabbi Chuni Vogel if we could finish our meal inside the confines of his warm, dry, inviting home. As if it were yesterday I remember him looking at me with a knowing smile and saying, “Shloma Yakov, no one ever said a mitzvah had to be easy.”

Throughout out the years, some easy and some more challenging, his words have echoed in my ears, giving me both solace and guidance as the adventure of my life has unfolded. Recently, I went to see my personal physician about a persistent pain in my abdomen. After extensive tests we learned that I had a failing gallbladder and it needed to come out as soon as possible.

On the Saturday before the operation I sat around a table with many of my friends at Chabad of Northern Nevada. We had just finished making Kiddush and were discussing the parsha of the week with a visiting Yeshiva student Yisroel Cutler of Huston, Texas. Yisroel was in Reno helping Rabbi Mendel Cunnin with a summer bar mitzvah camp for several local residents.

During the course of the afternoon I asked the Rabbi how I should handle dovening after the operation. Since the last operation I had was 42 years ago when my tonsils were removed, I figured I’d be laid up for a week and pretty much incapacitated. I wanted to make sure it would be okay if I kept the dovening to a minimum until I recovered. I figured he’d open up an ancient book of Jewish law and show me the paragraph that dealt with illness relieving one of the responsibilities of full dovening until they felt strong enough to fulfill the obligation.

As soon as the question left my lips I saw the same knowing smile appear on his face that I first saw on Rabbi Vogel’s face in the soggy Succah. He waited a moment and then said “Steve, you could lie in bed two or three days and do as much dovening as you feel up to, or you could wrap yourself in tallis and Teffilin and let the power and personal pleasure of dovening help speed up your recovery!” He went on to say, “By pushing yourself to do more than you think, you will recovery faster than you ever imagined. Never do more than you should but try and do more than you think you can.” Translation, no one ever said a mitzvah had to be easy but no one ever said it should hurt either.

The big day came and my doctors did a magnificent job. I went into the hospital that afternoon at 2:00 pm and I was home, snug in my own bed by 7:00 pm. I felt pretty good considering everything. Shortly after I got home I picked up my Siddur and dovened Maariv. I was little light headed but all in all it was a piece of kugel. I went to sleep with a contented smile on my face.

The next morning was VERY different. Everything hurt. My abdomen hurt, my side hurt, my chest hurt, I even thought what little hair I still had on the top of my head ached. My vision was somewhat blurry and I didn’t care if I ever put another morsel of food in my mouth again. After several minutes it was apparent that the wonderful painkillers they had given me at the hospital had worn off. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed, put on my tallis and Teffilin and doven. So I just laid there. As I dozed in an out of consciousness, the words of both Rabbis Vogel and Cunnin kept jarring me back to consciousness. “No one ever said a Mitzvah had to be easy. Wrap yourself in your tallis and Teffilin and let the power of dovening speed up your recovery.” Oy veh, even in your dreams these Chabad Rabbis are nothing if not persistent.

After another hour or so of struggling with my physical need to lie in bed like a stone, and my compelling desire to doven Shacharit, I “asked” the Rabbis in my head to be patient for a few moments and slowly, ever so slowly moved my legs to the side of the bed. About a half hour later I managed to get washed, put on some clothes and took out my tallis and Teffilin. It took a looooong time to properly put every thing on and an even longer time to complete the dovening. But when I was done I had to admit, I felt better. Later that day I dovened Mincha and then Maariv. Every time I dovened I felt just a little bit better.

As the days went by the davening got easier and my health improved. The dizziness and blurred vision disappeared quickly and my appetite returned with a vengeance. Wednesday morning I received a telephone call from my new friend Yisroel Cutler. He inquired about my health and then asked if I wanted to get together and learn some Gemmorah. Considering I had never studied a single word of Gemmorah in my life, I was surprised when I heard myself say, “Sure, how does 2:30 pm tomorrow sound?”

We met at the Chabad House and settled down for what I thought would be an easy hour or so of discussion. Of course that comes from a guy who never studied Gemmorah before. The entire discussion revolved around not more than four sentences concerning what one can and cannot do when they find abandoned grains left behind by the owner. Yisroel and I discussed, debated and argued about the myriad commentaries for almost two hours. Forgotten was the pain in my abdomen. Forgotten was the fuzzy vision. Forgotten was the continuing nausea. All were replaced by the joy and satisfaction of this stimulating discussion.

When I left the Chabad House I was a new man. Between the dovening and the learning I was reenergized. I had a spring in my step and a tune on my lips. The Rabbis were right, no one ever said the effort had to be easy and sometimes the more demanding way produces the bigger reward.

By the time Shabbos rolled around I was almost my old self. As we sat around the table at the Kiddush, eating succulent cholent and saying a few l’chaims, I couldn’t help but marvel at how lucky I was to find Chabad, or was it the other way around, oh so many years ago in Palm Springs, California. Coincidence, I think not!

Uncle John Goes to Shul

When I first moved to Reno, Nevada I was thrilled to discover that the Chabad Shul was a mere two miles away, and for the first time in my life I could walk to Shul on Shabbos. My weekly Shabbos walk takes me through several very distinct rural neighborhoods. About halfway through the journey I pass a huge evergreen tree that must be several hundred years old and several hundred feet high. Over the course of the last four years I've observed a strange, and for me, a very mystical sight. Every Shabbos at exactly 9:20 a.m. pair of Red Tail Hawks are majestically perched on top of this towering tree. They both look down on me and my friends and family as we walk by, and then without exception fly off toward the Shul. This doesn't happen once in awhile, or several times a month. It happens every single time I walk by the tree on Shabbos, at 9:20 a.m. Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall, I can count on my ‘friends’ waiting for me and then flying off as I pass by.

When I first told folks about this interesting phenomenon, everyone, including my own family, politely listened and then told me I was exaggerating. Even my best buddy Baruch Smith, looked at me with incredulous eyes. That is until he spent a Shabbos night at my home and walked with me to Shul the next morning. Now, even Baruch is a believer. Since the hawks were only there on Shabbos, I figured there had to be some deep biblical explanation for their appearance. They had to be my personal guardians, or angels in disguise. I asked everyone and anyone for an explanation but no one could equate my experience to a definitive spiritual explanation.

As the years rolled by I gave up my search for an explanation and just enjoyed this unique Shabbos experience. I even took to waving at my 'friends' and offering them a "Good Shabbos" as I walked by. When my Dad and Mom moved to Reno, and we started walking to Shul together, I 'introduced' him to the hawks and he marveled at their regular appearance every Shabbos. Although I resigned myself that there was no spiritual explanation, I still had a nagging need to understand why they were always there just as we passed by on Shabbos mornings. Little did I know but the long-awaited answer was just around the corner.

A few months ago my Aunt Meredith and Uncle John arrived from Boston to spend a few days with us. Upon their arrival we learned that my aunt and uncle had never experienced a Friday night Shabbos dinner, so my wife Linda and I were determined to pull out all the stops and show them the true joy found at the Shabbos table. It's no secret in our family that Uncle John loves matzo ball soup, so my Mom cooked up a batch of her super secret recipe. Uncle John was beside himself when Mom put the steaming hot bowl in front of him. The smile on his face lit up the entire room.

Sitting around the table, my aunt, uncle, mom and dad, shared stories of what it was like growing up in, and working, back in our hometown of New London, Connecticut. We laughed, we cried, and we eventually all went off to sleep with smiles on our faces, joy in our hearts and tummies full of Mom's matzo ball soup.

The next morning we were sitting around the breakfast table and I told my uncle about the phenomenon of the two hawks. Uncle John, a world-class birdwatcher, was intrigued by my story and said, "Boy I'd give anything to see them up close." A smile appeared on my lips and I said, "Well why don't you come to Shul with us and I will show them to you on the way." Now for whatever reason, in his almost 80 years Uncle John had never been to Shul on Shabbos. So he was somewhat reluctant to start today. He politely declined my offer.

About 30 minutes later as Dad and I were getting ready to leave the house, Uncle John changed his mind and said if I really meant it he'd love to come with us. As an avid birdwatcher he really wanted to see the hawks and he was also curious about what dad and I found so enjoyable about our Chabad House that sits at the foot of the towering Sierra Nevada mountain range.

We walked out the front door as we always do at precisely at 9:00 that morning. Along the way we met up with our friends Jay, Judah and Mark and continued our walk down the mountain toward Shul. At precisely 9:20 a.m., much to the amazement of my uncle, our feathered friends swooped into view and landed on the tree. We all stopped to view this wonderful sight and pondered how this continues to happen Shabbos after Shabbos. After looking at our friends from all angles we had to pull Uncle John away and continue our journey. And as if on cue the hawks flew away in the direction of the Shul

When we arrived at Shul I introduced my uncle to the entire gang and Rabbi Cunin started the morning davening. The two-hour service flew by and before the last "Good Shabbos" was uttered, we brought in long tables, set up the Kiddush and started singing tunes and enjoying the Rebbetzin's wonderful food. When someone put a bowl of chulant in front of my uncle, he asked me what it was. I told him it was chulant and it was a staple of many Shabbos lunches. He skeptically tasted a spoonful, then smiled and ate the rest with great relish, and then asked for another bowl! Another Shabbos treasure discovered! When it was time to leave, my uncle told me that he could see why my Dad and I were drawn to the Shul. He said the people were wonderful, the Rabbi was warm and welcoming, and the chulant was unbelievable!

On the way home one of our feathered guides swooped down onto a nearby tree as if to wish us a safe journey home, and then just as quickly flew off. My 80 year-old uncle, 77-year-old father and I walked the last mile up the mountain with a steady gate and smiles on our collective faces. I couldn't help but ponder that Reno really is a special place. A place where in the space of eighteen hours, an 80 year old Jewish man could bask in the light of Shabbos candles, eat matzo ball soup, attend Shul, eat chulant, and see Red Tail hawks up close and personal; and all for the first time.

After my aunt and uncle departed, I finally understood the mission of the hawks. They had waited patiently Shabbos after Shabbos, and year after year for Uncle John to appear. They were there to entice and guide him on his first walk to Shul. They were not watching over me, they were waiting for him. They were never my hawks they were always Uncle John’s hawks. If I didn't have a story about this unbelievable phenomenon, Uncle John might not have been intrigued enough to make the four-mile journey to Shul and back.

If this story isn’t unbelievable enough, it is also interesting to note that dad and I have walked by the towering evergreen tree on eight consecutive Shabbos mornings since Uncle John left, and we have yet to see the hawks. Coincidence, I think not!

Holy Sparks "Mined" in Nevada

It is explained in Jewish Mysticism that in truth the world has no existence of its own. Rather, every object and place in the universe has a spark of the Divine, which sustains it and causes it to exist. It becomes revealed and elevated when we sanctify it in a Mitzvah setting. Our sages have taught us that these sparks exist throughout the world and when enough of them have been “mined” and elevated and returned to their holy source, Moshiach will come, may it be soon.

During a Shabbos farbrengen at Chabad of Northern Nevada the subject of G-d's Holy Sparks was the focus of much of our discussion. The idea that these Holy Sparks exist all around us captured our collective imaginations. We were so intrigued by this notion that a number of us decided to meet at a nearby rural park and "mine" some Holy Sparks in an undeveloped area near our homes. Sealing the decision with a l'chaim and a song, we all agreed to meet the next morning, promptly at 8:30, to daven and "mine" some Holy Sparks.

The next morning I walked out my front door and a teeth-shattering frigid wind slammed directly into my face as the last gasp of winter flowed down from the towering snow-covered peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Tallis and Teffilin bag securely tucked under my arm, I hiked up my collar and walked down the mountain to meet my friends at Horseman's Park. As the park came into view I could see Jacob, David and Baruch shivering with their hands in their pockets as they tried their best to keep warm. Just as I stepped into the parking lot Rabbi Mendel Cunin drove in with his five children. As we huddled together against the cold, I said, "Remember no one every said a mitzvah had to be easy," to which the Rabbi joyfully replied, "True, but no one ever said it couldn't be fun either!"

With a smile in our hearts and a tune on our lips we began our journey to a scenic overlook, which provided a 360-degree view of the valley and the majestic mountains that silently stand guard over Reno. When we finally arrived at our destination, Baruch reminded everyone that the sparks we hoped to "mine" had remained hidden from view for the last 5765 years, just waiting for a Jew to come to this very spot and "harvest" them. Collectively we hoped that our small effort would hasten the arrival of Moshiach, ending the exile of the Jewish people and initiate the rebuilding of the holy Bas Hamikdash, may it be soon.

As a relentless wind continued to challenge our resolve, we began to put on our "mining" equipment. Collectively we donned our Tallis and Teffilin and started the Scharist (the morning) service. As the wind howled around us, it was all we could do to keep the pages in our prayer books from blowing back and forth and our kippas atop our heads. Just as we thought we had everything under control an enormous gust caught our Tallis bags and sent them dancing down the side of the mountain. Laughing out loud we scurried to retrieve them and then hurried back to our "mine shaft" and continued chanting the psalms and prayers of the morning service.

About half way through the Amidah another invisible explosion of wind literally blew our Tallit straight back so they were parallel with the ground. What a sight we were to behold, five men and five children standing on the edge of a canyon, the mountains to our backs, the sun in our face and a frigid part of the jet stream reminding us that winter was not quite ready to give up without a fight.

But while it was freezing outside, the heat of our davening burned brightly in our hearts and inspired our little group to complete their mission. As our intrepid group of "miners" continued on with the service the clouds that hung directly over the eastern horizon suddenly parted and we were drenched in the warm embrace of the sun's rays.

Reenergized, we picked up the pace and continued davening. Every once in awhile I would look up from my Siddur and marvel at the views from our outdoor shul. To the west was the Sierra Nevada mountain range, to the east was a gorgeous view of the growing city of Reno, to the south was a view of the mountains that formed the gateway to the historic city of Carson City and to the North was the rugged, undeveloped high desert, home to antelope, coyote and red tailed hawk. It was both a humbling and inspirational moment.

As we concluded the service, the clouds once again slipped in front of the sun and the temperature felt like it dropped ten degrees. The promise of snow was definitely in the air as we made our way back to the park entrance. Along the trail we could see homes built on the opposite side of the Steam Boat Ditch Canyon. We couldn't help but wonder if a Jewish family might have rubbed their eyes in disbelief as they glanced out their kitchen window and saw five Jewish men, wearing Tallis and Teffilin, swaying in unison on the edge of a rugged canyon as they davened. As my friend and mentor Rabbi Chuni Vogel once told me, "Shlomo Yakov, you never know who may be watching as you perform even a simple mitzvah. What seems like a minor act for you may be a life altering experience for someone observing your actions." His wise words reverberated in my mind as my buddies and I continued on our journey back to our vehicles.

When we arrived back at the parking lot we all agreed that despite the daunting weather, the experience of davening on an undeveloped piece of land, where we felt confident no Jew had ever davened before, was an experience that we wanted to repeat over and over again. We agreed to continue to meet at least once a month and "mine" for holy sparks at inspiring locations all over Northern Nevada. In fact, we decided to collectively spread the word and see if we could encourage Jews around the world to look for their own outdoor locations and "mine" Holy Sparks in their own personal, piece of the planet. If we could create a movement where folks were performing Torah Mitzvahs and "mining" Holy Sparks in small towns, cities, states, countries and continents all over the world, maybe this would be the last Pesach we'd ever have to say, "Next Year In Jerusalem.

The Chazzan’s Chazzan

As a young boy I spent countless hours fishing off the banks of Morgan's Pond near my home. I never caught many fish but I tossed many a pebble into the water and watched the resulting tiny ripples roll toward every corner of the shore surrounding that peaceful body of water. Little did I know those experiences would one day turn into a memorable Torah lesson.

In 1922 a young Boris Fisch and his twin brother Joe were born in a tiny village in Hungary. When they were young students they both attended a Hungarian institute dedicated to training young men to serve as Chazzans in Shuls around the world. Studying with the intensity of a supernova young Boris mastered one ancient tune after another. It has been said that young Boris was so good at learning these challenging tunes that at one point in his life he knew a melody for every prayer in his prayer book. When Boris and his brother were mere teenagers, their family emigrated to the United States looking for a new life in the land of opportunity.

Later in life Boris made his way from Pittsburgh to New York where he was employed as a full time men’s hat maker and a "part time" Chazzan. While making hats paid the bills, Boris' true vocation was that of a Chazzan and bar mitzvah teacher. His friends and colleagues estimate Chazzan Boris helped well over 3000 boys prepare for their bar mitzvahs. One of the very first bar mitzvah students the Chazzan worked with in New York was a high-energy lad named Paul Katz. While studying for his bar mitzvah young Paul’s Zaddie asked him if he was going to read from the Torah during his bar mitzvah. Since he’d never thought about it, Paul asked the Chazzan. Without skipping a beat the Chazzan told Paul, "Sure but the journey will not end there." A 12 year old Paul had no idea what the Chazzan had in mind but he wanted to please his Zaddie so he studied with the Chazzan and eventually had his bar mitzvah where he successfully chanted the ancient tune as he read from the Torah, just as he'd been taught by the Chazzan.

As time went on Paul learned exactly what the Chazzan meant when he told the young Paul that it would be a long journey. For the Chazzan, classically trained in the art of ancient Jewish songs and tunes of worship, had found his protégé in young Paul. Over the next ten years the Chazzan taught Paul every note, every phrase, every melody from his vast repertoire. Although Paul paid the bills by practicing neurological medicine, his true vocation was that of Chazzan. While Paul's pursuit if medicine took him all over the world, he never lost touch with Chazzan Fisch, speaking to him often.

Eventually the Chazzan retired and moved to Florida. Paul who was now better known as Doctor Katz, Medical Director of the Washoe Comprehensive Stroke Center and Institute for Neurosciences, Washoe Medical Center, Reno, Nevada continued to communicate with his friend and mentor and questioned him often about the tunes for Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. While Doctor Katz paid the bills through his work at the hospital, his “part time” vocation was serving as the Chazzan at Chabad of Northern Nevada in Reno. Week in and week out the small but growing congregation listened intently as Chazzan Katz chanted the ancient tunes a young Chazzan and his brother had learned many decades before in a tiny Jewish school in Hungry. Shortly after the most recent Yom Kippur the Chazzan asked Paul how the dovening went. Paul happily informed the Chazzan that while he was dovening Musaf, the prayers were so strong, he felt like the Chazzan was standing right beside him. The Chazzan had never heard his protégé lead the Reno congregation but he'd made plans to visit his pupil on Shavuous of the upcoming year. Unfortunately Hashem had other plans for the 83-year-old Chazzan and he passed away before he could make the cross-country trip.

At the conclusion of the Chazzan's emotional funeral service his family mentioned that he had always intended to record his special tunes, so his many students and congregants could listen to them for years to come. But somehow life got in the way and he never made it to the recording studio. Immediately all eyes turned to the Chazzan’s protégé and someone said, “Paul you know all of his tunes, you should record them.” On that day, in a shul in New York, a pledge was made and the Chazzan’s exceptional student committed to recording his teacher’s most treasured possession, his vast repertoire of melodies.

Upon his return to Reno Paul received a personal invitation to attend a party honoring local Chabad Rabbi Mendel Cunin. The invitation cautioned that it was a surprise and asked him to keep the event a secret. Arriving at the Rabbi’s home Paul was surprised to see over 40 members of the congregation packed into the Cunin’s living room. When the Rabbi walked in he asked everyone to join him in the shul. A few moments later the Rabbi looked at Paul and informed him that we weren’t really here for a surprise party for the Rabbi. He told him that we were really here to honor the blessed memory of Paul’s mentor, Chazzan Boris Fisch, a man none of us had ever met but whose efforts and commitment had an immeasurable impact on our entire congregation. He went on to say that his friends had contributed funds, in Chazzan Fisch’s name, to sponsor a parsha in the Shul’s new Torah, ensuring everyone who walked in the door for generations to come would recognize the Chazzan’s impact on Chabad of Northern Nevada. And with that he handed Paul a brass plate emblazoned with the name of Chazzan Boris Fisch and invited him to place it next to the parsha of his choice on a much larger memorial plaque that showcased every parsha of the Torah. With tears in his eyes and a smile on his face he placed it next to parsha Behar. With emotions swirling and joy in the air we all retired to the Cunnin’s home and listened for hours as Chazzan Katz shared a plethora of stories of his mentor’s glorious life.

As the evening came to a close and we departed for home, I couldn’t help but reflect back to my youthful days at Morgan’s Pond, throwing pebbles into the calm waters, watching the rippling waves make their way to distant shores. We had just spent an evening honoring a man, who 40 years earlier had thrown a spiritual pebble into the life of a very young boy, and now many years later the resulting ripples had made their way to the distant shores of Reno, Nevada, inspiring and captivating the souls of a Jewish community he’d never met.