Friday, November 28, 2008

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.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

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.

Spiritual Seeds Springs Forth in Reno

In the early 1950's, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, of blessed memory, dispatched a number of Rabbis and their families to go out into the world on a mission to help guide Jews, who had drifted away from their roots, back toward a more Torah-centered life. These first few emissaries planted the seeds of a movement that has blossomed into the largest Jewish outreach organization in the world. These selfless men and women have introduced countless educational programs throughout the world that have helped hundreds of thousands of Jews rediscover their Jewish roots and traditions. Little did I know that 50 years after the first Shluchim left the comfortable surroundings of Crown Heights, New York, that the Rebbe's hope and vision for the Jews of the world would help the spiritual seeds of Torah flourish in my own family.

As a young boy growing up in Connecticut my family didn't have a lot of money, but the one currency that was abundant was love and affection. My Dad and I have always had a strong, close knit relationship. From an early age we did everything together. He taught me to ride a bicycle on the front lawn of our home. He taught me the proper direction to push a lawn mower when mowing the grass. He nailed a basketball hoop to an old oak tree in the front yard and taught me the fine art of shooting a foul shot. Later in life, when I became a homeowner, he showed me how to fix a leaky faucet, install a garbage disposal and paint the outside of a house. Mine has been a life filled with numerous memories of my father teaching me the secrets a son needs to know in order to effectively navigate the seas of life. As I write this I just tuned 50 and Dad is about to turn 76. As I look back on our journey, the one thing I can't remember is Dad and I going to Shul on Shabbos. As a child I can remember going to Shul on Yom Kippur, I know I played a great Mordechai during a Purim play and Dad was certainly there on my bar mitzvah. But other than those cherished memories I don't remember Dad and I ever going to Shul on Shabbos.

In 1983 I moved to Palm Springs, California and a friend of mine introduced me to a young Chabad Rabbi named Yonason Denebeim. It was Rabbi Denebeim who first planted the spiritual seeds that would eventual grow and flourish within me many years later. During the entire time I lived in Palm Springs Dad and I never went to shul together. When I moved to Wilmington, Delaware Rabbi Chuni Vogel lovingly cultivated the spiritual seeds that Rabbi Denebeim had carefully nurtured for the better part of ten years. My journey in Delaware awakened a spiritual awareness and joy that I previously would have thought impossible. During that entire time Dad and I never went to shul together. When I asked him if he'd like to go with me he would tell me that he supported my spiritual journey but his experience in shul as a boy had left him with a negative memory and he just didn't want to go and he didn't want me to press him on the issue. Respecting my Dad's wishes, I didn't push him.

When we moved to Salem, Oregon I'd ask him if he wanted to go to shul with me in Portland and meet Rabbi Wilhelm. He once again politely declined. While I was disappointed, I recognized that life is a journey and things can dramatically change right around the next bend. If I've learned anything from the Chabad Rabbis I've met, it's everyone travels at their own speed and one has to have patience as well as commitment. So I waited for a time when my Dad and I could go to shul together and he could experience the joy and fulfillment I've discovered over the years.

When we moved to Reno, Nevada my journey took me to the steps of Chabad of Northern Nevada and I met Rabbi Mendel Cunin. Since my parents spend summers with us, they are exposed to many Chabad sponsored activities. Sometimes they go and other times they don't, but the Rabbi always invites them. In addition, by virtue of their presence in our home, they either actively or passively watch and or participate in the Jewish activities in our home, i.e., saying Kiddush before dinner on Friday night, putting on Teffilin in the morning, walking to Shul on Shabbos, lighting Shabbos candles and more.

During their last visit we were all sitting around the Shabbos table one Friday evening when my Dad said he'd like to go with me to Shul the next morning. He told me that he had only one condition and that was he did not want an Aliyah. He said he was glad to go but under no circumstance did he want to get up in front of the crowd and have to do anything. Figuring, this was all part of the journey, I quickly agreed. The next morning we left the house, walked down the mountain and arrived at the Shul a few minutes before the start of services. When we walked through the front entrance I shared my Dad's wish with the Rabbi and he also agreed. As the morning davening progressed I was dismayed to see that the service would be one of the longest of the year because not only was that morning's parsha the longest of the year, we were also going to bless the new month. Since this was Dad's first time in Shul in many years, I was concerned the long service would negate his experience and this visit would be his last. To top it off, the temperature as we walked home was a blistering 92 degrees.

I figured that was it, no more Shabbos services for Pops. During lunch, to my delight and surprise, he said he thought he did pretty well for the first time and was confident he'd feel more comfortable next week. "NEXT WEEK," my mind screamed out! I didn't think there'd be a next year, let alone a next week. To make a long story short, the next week turned into many weeks as the summer progressed. Every Saturday morning Dad and I walked down the mountain, walked into the shul and Dad greeted Morris with a good Shabbos, and Ken with a good Shabbos, and Aaron with a good Shabbos and then took his seat.

As the men would go up to the bema to say the blessing before the reading of the Torah, I'd look over and see Dad reading the blessings found in his Chumash. Several weeks later I overheard Dad practicing the blessings out loud in his room. I ran in and yelled, "You're a sandbagger, you're a sandbagger." His rendition of the blessings was perfect. He had led me to believe that he couldn't read them very well but his rendition was perfect. We laughed as my Mother came into the room and asked why I was raising my voice. I explained and she joined in on the laughter. I said, "Pops, you told me not to push you, but you just read those blessings as well as anyone in Shul, I really wish you would reconsider your position on the matter." He smiled and said, "let's go watch the Olympics on TV."

The next week, Reno celebrated a momentous occasion. Almost a year before, our congregation had commissioned the creation of a new Torah. The scribe was due to arrive in a few days with our brand new Torah and the entire Jewish community was a buzz with the thought of its pending arrival. The day the scribe and the Torah arrived was one I will never forget. When my family and I arrived at the Shul the place was packed, the local newspaper was present and you could cut the excitement with a knife. When the sofer wrote down the last letter of the Torah, blew on the ink, and stood up from the table, the entire congregation burst into a joyous song. The rest of the evening is a blur as we danced with the Torah, celebrated and came together as a community.

That night we returned home Dad looked at me and said, "I can't believe I had such a good time. I am almost 76 years old and I've never seen a night like this. I feel really comfortable with this congregation." I had to smile because if I've learned one thing from the Chabad Rabbis over the years, it's everyone travels at their own pace on their spiritual journeys and when it is time to go to the next level, they will know it. I looked at Dad and said, "Well maybe its time for your first Aliyah." He said, "Maybe you're right." That was good enough for me. I went to see Rabbi Cunin the next day and told him Dad was ready.

That Shabbos morning I awoke full of anticipation and excitement. As Dad and I walked down the mountain we talked about anything and everything but we never mentioned the Aliyah. When we walked through the front door of the shul, Dad greeted everyone with a good Shabbos and took what was now his regular seat. As we worked our way through the first part of the service my heart was racing. When it finally came time to read the Torah my heart was pounding in my ears. The first man went to the bema and said the blessings and the Rabbi read the first Aliyah. The second man went up and he too said the blessings and the rabbi read the next Aliyah. The next thing I heard was Rabbi Cunin calling Moishe Pincus ben Eleazer to the Torah. Pops looked at me, stood up and walked to the bema. I followed and stood a few inches away to provide moral support. Looking like an old pro, Dad took the end of his tallis, touched the first and last word of the Aliyah, grabbed the handles of the Torah and chanted the blessing Jewish men have been saying for the last 3200 years. After the Rabbi completed the Aliyah, Dad once again brought the handles together and chanted the last blessing. When he was done he leaned over, and with a twinkle in his eye he said, "Piece of Kugel!"

More than 50 years after the Rebbe sent his first emissaries to plant the seeds of Yidishkeit in the hearts of Jews around the world, on one special Shabbos, in the Biggest Little City in the World, one of the millions of spiritual seeds planted long ago burst forth and brought a loving family even closer to Torah. There is no doubt in my mind that somewhere on high in heaven, the Rebbe and my proud Grandpas Charlie, Fritz, and Lou raised a glass and said "l'chaim."

A 191 Year Old Reservation for Ten

Thirty-eight years after America won its independence from Britain, a publisher of Jewish books in Zurich Switzerland printed a book of Mishnias, the written account of the oral Torah, which defines the meaning of biblical laws. Printed in vivid colors and bound in a grand cover, it must have looked spectacular when it first rolled off the state of the art Gutenberg press.

At some point in time, over 191 years ago, a relative of mine bought this book and took it to his home to study. What happened to the book for the first one hundred and twenty-five years remains a mystery to my entire family to this very day. What we do know for sure is that at some point in his life, the book fell into the hands of my Great Uncle Ben. During his long lifetime my great uncle held myriad jobs, including working as a poultry farmer, a master mechanic and a sales person. Unfortunately life was difficult and challenging for Uncle Ben and he never pursued a life of Jewish study and scholarship and the book which must have been studied by countless individuals over it’s lifetime was stored away in a dark, dusty closet in the back of his home.

For more than 75 years this book, that is the basis for much of the legal systems around the secular world, remained hidden from view. Wars were fought, American President’s were elected, the state of Israel was established, children were born, young boys and girls had their bar and bas mitzvahs, and all the while the book sat patiently in the dark gathering dust and the present became the past.

At the ripe old age of 89 Uncle Ben passed away leaving behind his wife of 69 years and a modest home. My Uncle Mel and my Dad lovingly assisted their Aunt with pressing matters and eventually helped her find a beautiful place to live at a nearby assisted living community. When they went to her home to help her get her affairs in order they found the majestic old book in the back of the dark, dust-filled closet. Literally blowing the dust of the book, my Dad carefully examined the pages of the ancient manuscript. Since it was printed entirely in Hebrew it was a challenge to decipher.

His Aunt’s medical condition precluded him from questioning her about the book so he carefully packed it up and sent it to me, telling me to speak with the local Chabad Rabbi Mendel Cunin. When the box containing the treasure arrived at my home my wife Linda carefully cut through the yards of duct tape my Dad used to secure the box, and she carefully lifted it out of the container. Recognizing how frail it was she put it in a safe place and waited for me to return home later that day.

When I first saw the book I immediately thought it was a Chumash. But after a closer examination I realized it looked very much like the text we use in Shul when we study the Gemorah. Given the age of the book and its importance I looked forward to bringing it to the Rabbi for a closer inspection.

A day later I received an e-mail from the Rabbi informing our small but growing congregation that someone’s mother had passed away and he needed 10 men for a minion so he could say Kaddish. I decided to bring the book to Shul and show it to the Rabbi before the start of the Maariv service. When the Rabbi saw the book he of course knew that it was a book of Mishnias and told me it was at least 191 years old. He showed me how the pages were actually made from cloth, not paper, and that it was in remarkable shape for such an old manuscript.

A few minutes later the service began and we joined in to support our friend and neighbor in his time of need. Towards the end of the service the Rabbi stopped us and said it was a tradition to study from the Mishna when a member of the minion had to say Kaddish.
Catching my eye he said, “Rather than use a new book of Mishnias let’s use the one Steve brought with him tonight, a book that is over 191 years old.” And with that he picked up the book written just a few years after the signing of the American Declaration of Independence and discussed a passage about hunting for chametz before the start of Passover.

When he was done he slowly and tenderly closed the text and gingerly handed it back to me and we concluded the service. The next morning we met again so our friend could once again say Kaddish. Before we started we talked about the book and how wonderful it was that after all these years in seclusion it once again was used as a source of learning and inspiration. The Rabbi said the letters that make up the word Mishna are the exact same letters that make up the word Neshoma, the soul. He went on to say that both the Torah and the Neshoma are eternal.

His words tore through me like an electric charge, for each letter, word, sentence, paragraph, and chapter of the Torah are indeed eternal. The words we read today are the exact words our people heard when we all stood before Hashem at Mount Sinai and received the Torah. Handed down generation after generation these words that bring light to the world have never changed and never will. It is a constant that has united the Jewish people for centuries. And now hundreds of years after it was first printed, and at least three decades after it was stored away in a dark, dusty storage closet, the words of wisdom and enlightenment once again had an opportunity to illuminate the minds and souls of a congregation in the “Biggest Little City in the World” Reno, Nevada.

This exquisite book originally printed in 1814, has impacted many souls since a family member first acquired it so many years ago. Since that first printing it has passed from hand to hand, from relative to relative, it has been transported thousands and thousands of miles, it has resided in many different cities from Zurich, Switzerland, to Waterford, Connecticut and now Reno. And yet, more than 191 years, after the ink first caressed the pages of this very special book, it arrived just in the nick of time to comfort a grieving son and his friends in a little Shul in Reno, almost as if it had a pre-destined 191-year-old reservation to join a minyon of ten.

Coincidence, I think not.

Rain Couldn't Dampen the Joy of Shabbos

With elderly parents, every moment spent together should be treated as a wonderful and treasured gift. So it was with great anticipation that my wife Linda and I awaited the arrival of my parents for their annual three-month visit this past summer. Usually they come see us in December and January so they can escape the frigid winters of Connecticut. But this year Mom and Dad decided to come and see us in the summer so they could enjoy the cobalt blue skies, lush green mountains and awe inspiring beauty of the Reno/Lake Tahoe area.

Although I grew up in a very warm and loving home, our family wasn't very observant. Yes my parents made sure my brother Lou and I went to Hebrew school and yes we both struggled through our Bar Mitzvahs. But as soon as we uttered the last "Amen" at our Bar Mitzvahs, we were both out the door. Although it feels like I discovered Chabad of Delaware a lifetime ago, it really has only been eight years since Rabbi Vogel and his family helped me get started on my spiritual journey.

During that time my parents have visited Linda and me quite often. They've watched as I learned to put on Teffilin in the morning, daven three times a day, say Kiddush on Shabbos and walk to Shul on Shabbos morning. In the beginning they were a little concerned about the changes they saw in my life style. No more lobster bisque, no more cheeseburgers and no more tee times on Saturday mornings. But they also saw that I laughed more, I was much less stressed when I came home from work and I was a more loving husband and dad then in previous years. As I became more observant, I became a much more relaxed and happy person. As the years rolled by, Mom and Dad moved from sitting on the sidelines and watching from a distance, to asking questions about what I was doing and why I was doing it. Slowly but surely my parents became more and more comfortable with the changes in my life. Today they totally support my involvement with Chabad and the more observant lifestyle I've adopted. So it was with great anticipation that we awaited their arrival.

My parents arrived on a Wednesday afternoon. We picked them up and then promptly went off to see Lake Tahoe. After several days at the Lake we came home for Shabbos. That night I witnessed something I hadn't seen during the entire 49 years since I took my first breath of life. Shortly before sunset I called out to my wife Linda and said we had to light the Shabbos candles in a few minutes. She said, "Don't worry, Mom and I have them all ready." Now my Mom has stood beside Linda on numerous occasions and watched her light the candles and say the blessing welcoming in the Shabbos. On a number of occasions she has also lit candles and read the blessing in English. So I was absolutely stunned when I walked into the kitchen and handed my Mom a prayer book, so she could read the blessing in English, when she laughed and said, "I don't need that Son." And with that, she covered her head, lit the candles and chanted the blessing in Hebrew.

Now that might not be a big deal to most, but in my home it was nothing short of a Shabbos miracle. My Mom, who had never spent a minute of her life in Hebrew school, had taught herself the blessing in Hebrew and had been lighting candles every Friday night for the past year. When I asked her how this had happened, she just smiled and said, "What's the big deal? It's a piece of kugel!" That evening was the best Shabbos dinner I've ever had. The light that emanated from those Shabbos candles illuminated every corner of the house. They were the first candles I had ever seen my Mother light using the ancient and poetic language of Sarah, Rebecca and Miriam.

The next morning, my heart aflame with joy over my Mother's actions the night before, I walked down the mountain to Shul, thanking Hashem for allowing me to share this precious moment with my Mom. As I walked to shul the words of Rabbi Vogel echoed in my mind. He once told me that we never know who is watching and observing us when we fulfill a mitzvah. He said, "You might not think anyone is watching when you wear your tzitzit to shul, or you daven in an airport or you wear your kippa while pumping gas. But in many cases someone is watching and observing what you are doing and may be inspired to try something new based on your one simple act." He emphasized that, "You never know when a fellow Jew may be watching you complete a mitzvah. That one mitzvah may be enough to give them courage to take the next step on their own spiritual journey."

When I finally arrived at shul I told my friends about my Mom's actions the night before. They all agreed that it was a wonderful moment for my entire family. A few moments later our Rabbi Mendel Cunin called us together and we started davening. Several hours later, I began the journey back up the mountain road to my home. As I arrived at the half waypoint, the beautiful blue sky suddenly clouded up and became dark as night. The wind started to howl and the rain came down in violent sheets, seemingly from every direction at once. Within three short minutes I was soaked to the skin and absolutely miserable. The wind was blowing, I was wet and freezing and all I wanted to do was get home. Each step was a struggle. Suddenly out of nowhere a non-Jewish neighbor of mine drove by and waved. Seeing that I was soaked to the skin he motioned that he was going to turn around and come pick me up. For the first time in a very long time, I seriously contemplated getting into the car and accepting the ride home.

"Who'd know?" I asked myself. "Just this once," I rationalized. Just as I turned around to wait for my neighbor, a huge ten-wheeled truck pulled up next to me. On the side of the truck was an enormous sign that said, "Vogel Floors." As I stared up at the rolling billboard directly in front of me, my eyes locked on the words VOGEL. With the rain pouring off every part of my body my neighbor pulled up and said, "Steve, hop in and get out of the rain." Absent-mindedly I placed my hand on the door handle; all the while my eyes never left the word VOGEL. As if I had just touched a hot coal, I quickly pulled my hand away from the door and thanked my neighbor for their kindness and declined the offer. "I'll walk," I said. "It's only another mile."

He shook his head in wonderment and drove off. Simultaneously, the big truck fired up its engine and it too rolled off, disappearing into a blinding sheet of rain. "VOGEL Floors," I said over and over again as I walked through the rain. I couldn't help but think that this was either an incredible coincidence or a very special gift from Hashem. Since I don't believe in coincidence, I thanked Hashem for placing the name of my friend and spiritual mentor on the side of the truck and helping me make the right decision. Buoyed by this memorable experience I literally danced up the hill.

In the short span of about 18 hours I had seen and experienced two unforgettable moments. The first illustrated the long term results a simple but important Mitzvah like lightening the Shabbos candles can ultimately produce. The second reinforced some wise advice Rabbi Vogel once gave me. One night during a torrential downpour in his Succah, when all I wanted to do was get out of the rain and finish the meal in the house, he told me, "Shlomo Yakov, no one ever said a Mitzvah had to be easy."

We are faced with numerous, and sometimes difficult decisions, each and every day of our lives. At the end of the day we also have to live with the resulting consequences of those decisions. Getting into the car and getting out of the rain would have provided momentary relief from an uncomfortable situation. But the warmth and joy generated from making difficult, and at times uncomfortable decisions, can illuminate ones life and refresh ones soul a thousand times over.
Coincidence...I think not!

Inspiration Times Three

Inspiration can come in all shapes and sizes. A few weeks ago, during a Fabrigin at Chabad of Northern Nevada, visiting Rabbi Shlomie Chein told us a story of a wagon driver who thought he had a mundane, uninspiring job. One day he went to his Rebbe for some words of inspiration, but when he finally met with the Rebbe he was so nervous, all he could say was, "I am a simple wagon driver." The Rebbe (Maharash) looked at the man and told him that his job affords him a unique opportunity each and every day to lift his eyes on high and see a reminder of G-d in everything he sees. Rabbi Chein went on to say that Synagogues have large windows so their congregations can easily see outside, and thus be consistently reminded of G-d whenever they are in Shul. Given the fact that our shul is located at the base of the magnificent Sierra Nevada Mountain range, the entire group seated around the table could relate to the Rebbe Maharash's insightful words. Despite the enormity of the Sierra Nevada Mountain range and the unmatched splendor of nearby Lake Tahoe, three of the most inspirational examples of Hashem's blessings in Northern Nevada may be Moshe, Chana and Rochel Cunin, four year old triplets and three of Rabbi Mendel and Rebbetzin Sarah Cunin's children.
Recently, on the first night of Pesach, when it came time for the Four Questions, the three popped up to stand on their chairs and beautifully and melodically chanted the questions that young Jewish children have been asking their parents for over 3315 years. The Cunin triplets are members of Northern Nevada's first-ever Jewish pre-school. Despite the fact that they cannot yet read or write, the triplets and their classmates have memorized myriad songs, prayers and passages as part of their daily lessons. Each member of this fledgling pre-school is an inspiration to their parents, friends and neighbors in our small Jewish community. Some of the parents of the students, who previously were uninterested or unaware of their Jewish heritage, have watched their children flourish in the warm embrace of the Gan Sierra Pre School and have started lighting Shabbos candles, eating kosher food and attending shul more frequently, as their tiny children inspire them to cultivate and build stronger Jewish roots at home.

During the Seder when the Cunin triplets stood up on their chairs, with smiles from ear to ear, and gleefully sang their songs and asked the Four Questions, I watched the reaction of the smiling adults around the packed room. It was as if each and everyone one of them were suddenly transported back in time, to a moment when they were the little ones standing on their chairs, singing for their Zaydes, Bobes, Moms and Dads. As Moshe, Chana and Rochel sang each question from memory, the adults at the table let their minds drift back to a much simpler, loving, inspirational time in their respective lives; a time when they were inspired to learn more about our Jewish roots, heritage and traditions. In today's busy world many of us think it is too late, too difficult, or to embarrassing to go back to our Jewish roots and explore and embrace the teachings of Torah, and to live more observant lives. But in reality, it is never too late to take the first step toward a more spiritual, Torah-based life. A simple call to any Chabad House in the world will be met with an open, sincere, accepting invitation to learn, at your own pace, information about your people, traditions, and rich heritage.

On the day before the first night of Pesach, a Reno resident sent a letter to our local newspaper, in which he questioned the ability of modern-day Jews to follow Torah mitzvahs in today's turbulent world. He made it clear that he felt the commandments Hashem gave to Moses and the Jewish people are simply too difficult, challenging and unrealistic for "modern" human beings to follow. He was arguing that people simply do not possess the capacity to follow 10 commandments, let alone 613. His letter made me realize that he obviously had never been to a Chabad House, that he had never sat down at a Shabbos table faintly illuminated by the ambient glow of burning candles, and that he had most definitely never seen three inspirational members of the Reno Jewish community, who because of their parents and wonderful teachers, demonstrate daily just how easily one can make Hashem's Commandments part of one's daily life.

The Cunin triplets serve as inspiration for our entire community. As I watched them at the Seder I asked myself, if three four year olds can learn to honor
Shabbat, eat Kosher food, say Kiddush, light Shabbos candles, celebrate Yom Tovs (holidays) wear tzitzit and a kippa and bench after meals, why is it so difficult for an adult to do so as well. If a four year old can see Hashem's wondrous hand in the world around them, why can't we? If a four year old can proudly jump up on their chair and belt out the Four Questions, why are we so frightened to let a boss know that we need several days off to celebrate Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Pesach, Shavuous or Succoth? The truth is, a child rarely is embarrassed to try something new, listen to their parents or that little special voice inside their heads that begs them to do the right thing. It's only as adults that we stop listening to that little voice, our mentors, our parents and our families. We don't want to be embarrassed or admit our ignorance about subjects of which we are unfamiliar. Sometimes it takes a little inspiration to capture our attention, motivate us and refocus our efforts in the right direction.

As I said before, inspiration can come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes we can be inspired by the glories of nature. Sometimes by inspirational community leaders and sometimes by three small members of our community who live, breathe and sing the joys of their heritage. Over the course of the 90's, millions of people around the world watched Michael Jordan perform on the basketball court. Nike commercials proclaimed that everyone wanted to be "Just like Mike." I have to admit there were times when I too wanted to be just like Mike as well. But with all due respect to Mr. Jordan and the people at Nike, after spending time with, and watching the Cunin triplets this past Pesach, I think I'd like to be more like Moshe, Chana and Rochel!

Six miles: Just a Good Stretch of the Legs!

As I walked out the front door of our brand new house I was grinning like a Cheshire cat. I touched the mezuzah on the doorpost and strolled down the sidewalk leading to the road that runs by the front of my house. After traveling about three steps, my eyes began to tear up, my cheeks got bright red and my fingers felt like frozen hot dogs. “It must be 24 degrees out here,” I thought to myself.

When my wife Linda and I moved to Reno, Nevada we were fortunate to find a home that was located about two miles from the local Chabad Shul. Since we had never lived close to a Shul before, I was excited about the opportunity to enjoy a brisk Shabbos walk to Shul each week. Now it is not unusual for me to walk three and four miles when I exercise on my treadmill, so I knew a short two-mile walk to Shul on Shabbos would be a piece of kugel. However, I must admit, I never walk on my treadmill in 24 degree temperatures or when the wind is blowing like a small gale straight into my face. After walking another 100 yards I stopped and pondered the idea of turning around and driving to Shul. “Who’d know,” I asked myself. “You’d know,” I answered myself without hesitation.

As I paused to consider my situation my good friend Desmond Rothenberg suddenly popped into my mind. Des, as we like to call him, is the Gabbai of the Chabad Shul in Wilmington, Delaware. He’s the guy that gets to Shul early on Shabbos, makes sure all the seats are perfectly arranged, all the Siddurim are neatly stacked on the bookshelf and the Shul itself is ready for the minyon.

During my last visit to Wilmington, I attended the bar mitzvah of another good friend, young Dovi Vogel. It goes without saying that we had a wonderful time celebrating Dovi’s special day. Relatives and friends from around the world came to hear Dovi lead the davening, lane from the Torah and chant his Haftorah. After an afternoon of celebration and joy, the sun finally set, the stars illuminated the sky and those remaining at the Vogel home participated in the Havdalah ceremony to officially mark the conclusion of that Shabbos.

I had taken advantage of a great online deal and was scheduled to take a red-eye flight back to Nevada later that evening. As I was making my way to the front door I heard someone say, “It’s late, can someone give Des a ride home?” I had about four hours until my flight, so I gladly volunteered. I assumed he lived nearby, since he has been the Gabbai ever since I walked into the Chabad of Delaware Shul many years before.

Des and I jumped into my Ford Focus rental car and started our journey. The first mile went by and then the next. After three miles I said, “Des, have we missed a turnoff, we’ve gone more than three miles?” He laughed and said, “Steve its right up the road.” As we traveled through mile four I saw a sign on the side of the road that said. “Welcome to Pennsylvania.” “Welcome to Pennsylvania,” my mind shouted out! With the Delaware landscape rapidly disappearing in my rear view mirror I said, “Des where the heck do you actually live?” He replied, “I live about two more miles up the road. Go to the second street light and turn right and we’ll be there.”

Incredulously I asked, “You live six and a half miles from Shul and walk both ways every Shabbos?” “It’s just a good stretch of the legs Steve” he replied. When we finally pulled in front of his house I said, “Des, do you walk all this way, through two states, when it rains and snows as well?” He laughed and replied, “Well, when it rains or snows I just walk a little faster!” I looked at him and shook my head with astonishment and admiration. We shook hands goodbye, wished each other well and parted company. As he made his way to his front door I was awestruck by his commitment. Every Shabbos he walks 13 miles round trip, through two states and still manages to make sure the Shul is perfect before the rest of the congregation arrives. I on the other hand complain if my tea is a tad bit cold!

The memory of this encounter bombarded my brain, as I stood at the top of the hill in Reno feeling sorry for myself because my ears were a little frosty and the howling wind was mussing up my hair. I thought about Des and his unwavering commitment to his beliefs, his Shul and his friends. Des’ mantra “It’s just a good stretch of the legs,” was now my mantra. Inspired by his example I shrugged off the chill, blew on my hands and started down the hill. As inches became feet and feet became yards and yards became half miles, my body quickly warmed up. Arms and legs pumping like a member of the Chabad race-walk team, I found myself briskly covering the ground between my front door and the Shul.

Before you could say, “Please pass the kugel,” I was opening the door to the Shul. Standing there with a big smile on his face was Rabbi Mendel Cunin. He greeted me warmly and said, “Good Shabbos Steve. I looked out the side window and saw you walking briskly to Shul. Isn’t it a wonderful day for a good Shabbos walk?” Thinking of Des I said, “It was a good stretch of the legs Rabbi.”

After we concluded the Scharist davening Rebbetzin Sarah Cunin treated us to a sumptuous Kiddush. While munching on herring, a thick, steamy chulant and assorted other delights, Rabbi Cunin asked me to talk about my walk through the early morning frost. I related my story about my good friend Des and everyone marveled at his dedication. At the conclusion of the Kiddush I said Good Shabbos to one and all and made my way back up the hill.

I quickly found that walking down a two-mile hill is much easier than walking up a two-mile hill. Thanks to the spirit of Shabbos and my inspirational friend Des’ example, I eventually made it home. About two months later I was leaving Shul for my walk up the hill when a friend from our minyon stopped me and asked if there were any houses for sale in my neighborhood. I told him there were a number of very nice ones available at the moment. I reminded him that I lived about two miles away. He said that didn’t bother him and if he found the right place we could walk to Shul together. I wished him Good Shabbos and started up the hill.

As I made my way along the meandering streets that would eventually lead to my home, I marveled at the series of events that had recently transpired. A “chance” opportunity to drive a buddy home after a weekend of celebration and joy had, by its example, inspired friends and strangers thousands of miles away. Of course if you asked Des, he’d shrug it off and remind you that it’s nothing special, “Just a good stretch of the legs!”

A Yid with a Lid

There was a winter chill in the air when I stepped into the cab to make my way to the Reno/Tahoe Airport, to begin my daylong journey to my company's corporate headquarters in McLain, Virginia.

I had rushed out of the house so quickly that I had forgotten my coat and gloves. As the steamy breath flowed out of my mouth, I told myself this was not the way I wanted to start the day.

My plane was leaving at 6:00 am so it was way to early to start my morning davening. Since I had yet to daven on an airplane in front of strangers, I decided to wait until I arrived in Washington DC before davening. It would be a little late in the day but I figured it would be ok just this once.

Before boarding the plane I donned my kippa, pulled out my siddur and read the prayer for travelers, asking G-D's blessing during the trip. When I was done I noticed a rather smartly dressed fellow walk by wearing a brightly colored beret. I love wearing stylish looking hats but it is not every day that you see someone with such a “distinctive” looking chapeau on his head. As he walked through the terminal I noticed how proud he was of his beret and how he appeared to enjoy showing it off.

As I reached for my kippa, to tuck it away in my travel bag, I suddenly felt compelled to leave it on. I've had a lot of first since discovering Chabad, but I can honestly say I've never worn my kippa, outside of my home or shul, for any great length of time.

But watching the fella proudly wearing his beret made me think, “This was the day to wear it in public.” Filled with great trepidation over what my fellow passengers would think, I pushed my black kippa to the back of my head, like a confused cowboy, and boarded the plane. My plan was to wear it until I arrived in Denver and then take it off while running to my connecting flight.

The trip to Denver was a long two hours. I felt very self-conscious. I thought everyone was looking at me, judging me, laughing at me! In truth my fellow passengers were more interested in their morning copy of USA Today than they were about the "Yid with the Lid," but you don't always notice the truth when you are filled with anxiety.

As we approached the Denver airport a flight attendant informed us that the Denver to Washington DC flight was delayed 2 hours. Since it was only 9 am Denver time I suddenly had plenty of time for my morning prayers. After disembarking I strolled through the airport until I found a nice, quiet, private place to pray. When I was done, I carefully rewrapped my Teffilin, folded my tallis and put them away in my bag. As I reached up to grab my kippa and put it away, my friend with the brightly colored beret strolled by, walked over to the automated sidewalk and disappeared into the crowd.

I slowly withdrew my hand from my kippa and left it on my head. I figured if the guy still had his beret on, maybe I should leave my kippa on a little while longer as well. Walking to the gate I decided to leave it on until I arrived at my hotel room later that day. “Go for it Shlomo Yakov" I told myself, "make your dearly departed Great Grandfather Charlie proud.”

When I found my seat on my connecting flight there was an older, rather sad looking woman sitting in the seat next to mine. We exchanged "good mornings” and got ready for take off. As the flight attendant showed us how to buckle our seat belts, I quietly asked if there was anyone who has driven in a car built after 1963 that didn’t know how to buckle a seat belt.

For the first time since I sat down the woman next to me smiled. The ice broken, we started talking. As time passed she shared a sad tale about her son, who was mentally challenged, as a result of a surgery that went horribly wrong. Tearing up, she told me that he was in a special rehab center and would require care for the rest of his life. She told me she was terribly angry with the doctor and just didn't know if she believed in G-D anymore.

I asked her if she was praying to G-D while her son was in the operating room. She said she had. "So you do believe in G-D," I said" "You’re just angry at him right now because you don't understand why this happened." " I guess you're right" she said. " I just don't understand how this could happen or how he could let it happen.” Drawing upon the many lessons my good friend Rabbi Chuni Vogel has shared with me over the years, I spoke with my fellow traveler for over four hours. The time seemed to go by in the wink of an eye as we jetted across the country, talking about her feelings toward the surgeon who operated on her son, her husband who never wanted the surgery in the first place and her inability to do anything constructive for her son or about the situation.

We discussed how in some cases it takes time for the true blessings of a perceived negative experience to turn into a significant, life-altering blessing or learning experience. We also agreed that sometimes it is impossible to understand why bad things happen to good people, because as human beings, it is impossible to truly understand G-d’s plan.

As the hours rolled by my newfound friend began to brighten up and literally surge with energy. When the flight attendant announced that we were moments away from landing, my neighbor began to cry. I asked her why she was crying and she said that she never speaks to strangers when she travels but this time she felt it was okay to speak with me. I asked her why and she said she born into an observant Jewish family but had married a non-Jew and had lost her sense of Jewish identity. But when she saw the kippa on my head, she realized I was an observant Jew and felt compelled to speak with me. I started to smile and she asked what I thought was so funny. I told her that I have been on a spiritual journey for a number of years but this was the first time I had ever worn my kippa in public.

With a look of wonder she said she travels hundreds of thousands of miles every year on business and NEVER speaks with strangers. She asked me, “Why of all days did you decided to wear your kippa today.” I told her about the guy with the beret and she laughed a soft laughed. I went on to say that due to myriad problems, my seat on this flight had been changed at least four times in the past two days. “I guess it was meant to be,” she whispered. “I guess so,” I whispered back.

As we got up to leave the plane she said, “Steve this has been an enlightening experience. All of the pain and guilt I’ve carried around for the past six months is gone. When I leave here I am going to channel my energies into positive efforts. I am going home and become an advocate for mentally challenged patients like my son. The next time you see me I’ll be on C-SPAN talking to a congressional panel about benefits for the mentally disabled.”

And with that she said goodbye and disappeared into the undulating crowd moving through Dulles Airport. As I looked out the window at the setting sun I couldn’t help but marvel at the many separate and distinct events that had transpired that day, resulting in this memorable meeting. I never saw the guy with the beret again!