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!
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