I was ready – or so I thought. I cruised into my second driving test, confident (or trying to convince myself that I was) that I wouldn’t repeat the misI take of my last test: scraping the barrier in front of the spot I was supposed to be backing into. Now, one month later, I was a much more experienced driver, a much smoother driver, and a much safer driver. I would without a doubt pass this test with flying colors.
Okay, I’ll admit it: I was still nervous.
As the stern-faced instructor barreled into the car, I offered her a tremulous smile, intent on transforming her dry list of monotonous instructions into something a tad more cheerful. Surprise! No such luck.
After enduring a droning speech of rules and regulations, I shifted into drive and pressed on the gas pedal. We were off! Soon, I was cautiously maneuvering (backwards!) into the parking spot, swiveling my head in every direction and peering very thankfully into the back-up camera. Orange cones, green flags, and white lines flashed by, and guess what? I did it! Success!
Now I was sure I’d pass the rest of the test, right? All that was left to do was drive through a few side streets, make a couple left turns, and name one or two street signs. Piece of cake!
Within two minutes, though, I’d switched places with the driving instructor, and we were cruising back to the starting line, a strip of parking spots that doubles as the finish line. And why, you ask, was I not privileged to receive my license on that cold winter day? Well, I had overlooked a stop sign!
* * *
So many times in life, we forget to stop. We forget to look around, examine our surroundings, and check the roads for lessons hurling past. Because life is a journey – a busy journey – with traffic jams and gridlock and time limits. And we’re all navigating the roads with practiced speed, rushing to our destinations.
What a chaval (waste), though, to reach the finish line only to realize that it resembles the starting line because we ran past the stop signs along the road. Instead, we must stop along the way, and learn from all the people we encounter and all the situations we experience.
That’s why I’m excited to begin this column, a series of thoughts and reflections on everyday life. I hope to specifically focus on experiences in Eretz Yisrael, where I am so fortunate to be, and to reflect on opportunities that help us stop and think, before spurring us forward on our journey of life.
* * *
POW. It stands for “prisoner of war,” an aspect of life very far from my everyday existence, something I had only read about in action-packed books filled with courage and gunfire.
But he’d been there! Rav Noach Hertz had been in a Syrian prison, where he was beaten and tortured, treated more like an animal than a human being. He stood in front of us, a large group of avid listeners, passionately describing the danger of flying war planes during the 1973 Yom Kippur war. He spoke of the dread of knowing that if struck down, his chances of survival were close to nil. He expressed the pain – the numbing, gut-wrenching pain – of losing so many friends in battle. He told of the anxiety of being so far away from his young, vibrant family. He described life as a prisoner, shackled and chained, literally. And there was nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. And no one to care for him. He was locked in a cage of cruelty. Alone.
Then, Noach Hertz described his subsequent return to Yiddishkeit, the lessons he learned and how Torah is now his life. And then he looked at the crowd in front of him, a fire dancing in his eyes, and he boomed: “You have hands! You have feet! You have showers! You have food! You have water! You have life!” He paused and peered intently at the crowd. “You are so lucky!”
For me, his voice penetrated somewhere very deep. Appreciate! Don’t take for granted! I have food! I have water! I can see! I can walk! I’m alive!
I had just toured Moshav Yesodos, where Rav Hertz and his family live. I glimpsed the sprawling grape vines. I bumped along on a hay ride, winding through acres and acres of plants and animals, meandering through miles and miles of food. Miles and miles of potential. Miles and miles of life!
So much life and so much vibrancy in a land that was once (and still is!) desert. So much love of Torah and mitzvos in a world of confusion. So much good. So much to be grateful for!
