?I like the American holiday of Thanksgiving which was just celebrated. Unfortunately, these days, instead of giving thanks to G-d and showing gratitude to others, many Americans think that Thanksgiving is simply a time to shop for bargains.
Giving thanks and showing
appreciation are core Jewish values. The Modim
prayer of thanksgiving is recited daily in our Shmoneh Esrei/Amidah. As
Chanukah approaches, we Jews are reminded to be thankful for the miracles that
Hashem performed for our ancestors. Our survival then, as now, has always relied
upon miracles. In recent times, though, both of these holidays have become more
about getting than giving. It seems that we need to be reminded to give with an open hand, to appreciate,
and to be thankful, because our spiritual health and wellbeing require it.
Most of us are bombarded with memes,
videos, and commentaries, coming in from lots of different sources. I seldom
open unsolicited content, but when the source is a family member, friend, or
colleague, I’ll usually take the time to have a look. Recently, a colleague of
mine, from London, Rabbi Dr. Jonathan Dove, sent me a lovely, thought-provoking,
short animated video that reminded me to be thankful and grateful for the many
blessings which G-d has bestowed upon me. The simple but attractive video opens
with a vintage train departing from a small country station. The background
features rolling hills and pastures. As the train chugs along the track, brief
captions appear in text above the horizon. Please read the following phrases as
they appeared in the video just above the vintage train.
?* * *
·
At birth, we board the train and meet
our parents, and we believe they will always travel by our side.
·
As time goes by, other people will
board the train, and they will be significant – such as our siblings, friends,
children, and the love of our life.
·
However, at some station, our
parents will step off the train, leaving us forever.
·
Others will step off over time, and
leave a permanent vacuum.
·
Some, however, will go unnoticed as
they vacate their seats.
·
This train ride will be filled with
joy, sorrow, fantasy, expectations, hellos, goodbyes, and farewells.
·
A successful journey consists of
having a good relationship with all passengers, requiring that we give the best
of ourselves.
·
The mystery is: We do not know at
which station we, ourselves, will disembark.
·
So, we must live in the best way:
love, forgive, and offer the best of who we are.
·
When the time comes for us to step
down and leave our seat empty, we should leave behind beautiful memories for
those who will continue to travel on the train of life.
·
Who has been the most important
person with you on the train?
·
No matter their role, remember to be
thankful to those who accompanied you on your journey.
* * *
Although the What Where When doesn’t offer a video viewing option, I wanted to
share the video captions because when I read those simple phrases, I paused and
thought about my personal journey and the fact that I have been very blessed to
ride the train for quite a while. The video caused me to stop and think about
my parents, who stepped off the train a while ago, and about my wife, my
family, my mentors, and my friends. It made me think about my train ride, and some of the sights, scenes, and experiences I’ve
had along the way.
I thought about my mom and dad, who
both grew up during the Great Depression; actually, my dad was a teenager. They
both remembered times when food was scarce and dinner was bread and potatoes,
for which they were grateful. They remembered having one heat source in their
spartan homes – a wood-fired kitchen stove – and how on very cold nights it was
better to sleep on the kitchen floor than in a freezing bedroom.
New clothes were rare, and hand-me-downs were
the norm. One pair of shoes had to last until they became unwearable. Sharing
with, and caring for others was the expected norm. Sharing your bedroom with
siblings – and guests – was natural. One indoor shared bathroom was considered
a luxury, especially when compared to a freezing outhouse. Their parents (my
grandparents) didn’t assign chores; everyone knew to pitch in. Saying “please”
and “thank you” and showing appreciation was reflexive. No matter how little
they had, they knew that others had less; therefore charity was understood.
When I was a child, most stores had “layaway”
plans. Essentially, if you saw something you wanted but didn’t have enough
saved up to buy it, the shop owner would put the item aside for you, and you
would come by to make regular payments until you had enough money to take
possession of the item. Those were the days before
credit cards! I clearly recall holding my grandma’s hand (my mom’s mom) and
walking with her to a clothing shop on East Monument Street, where she had a “layaway”
sweater with a fur collar. I can still see Grandma trying on that sweater,
standing in front of a mirror and admiring herself wearing it. I was with her
when the big day came, and we entered the store to take possession of her long-awaited
sweater. She said to the saleslady, “May I please get that boxed and gift
wrapped?” Although I was only five years old, I knew that you didn’t gift wrap
something you bought for yourself. I said, “Grandma, why are you gift wrapping
your new sweater?” She looked at me and said, “I’m going to give this to my
sister Sarah. It will look nice on her, and she needs it more than I do.” I
learned a lot that day. Years later, I was with my mom when she did almost the
same thing. The day came when she had the final payment for a jacket that she
had put on layaway. We entered the store, and my mom apologized to the owner
and asked if, instead of the jacket, she could get a store credit to give to
her sister for her birthday.
* *
*
There are certain things from my
train ride that I remember well – like the time on a hot summer day when I was
in a steamy car with my dad. Although I was only seven, I could read fairly
well. We passed a billboard that said, “Meadowbrook Swimming Pool – Have fun
and cool off here.” I said, “Dad, it’s so hot; can we go there?” Without
flinching, my dad said, “They don’t allow Jews there. We go to Carlin’s Park.”
I remember saying, “But Dad, how will they know that we’re Jews?” My dad said,
“We don’t go where we’re not wanted and respected.” And that was that!
It’s interesting how Jewish
immigrants to America succeeded and integrated into the general society as best
they could. Our government never made Yiddish an official language. We never
were considered a disadvantaged minority entitled to any handouts, notwithstanding
the fact that many Jews arrived as penniless immigrants escaping harsh
persecution. Upon arriving in America, Jews faced hostility and open
discrimination. Maybe, because of discrimination and no expectation of
receiving any government assistance, we Jews succeeded in America beyond
logical expectations.
When my late father-in-law, a 19-year-old
honors graduate of Yale, was told that the medical school Jewish quota was
filled, he decided to go to law school. Why? Because he decided that being able
to have a profession and earn a living was his number one priority. When my
late uncle faced the same situation, he took a detour and became a pharmacist
and eventually found his way into University of Maryland Medical School.
My uncle’s parents and my father-in-law’s
parents were all Yiddish-speaking immigrants escaping tyranny and hoping for a
better life. From their first day in America, they found jobs, sometimes
unpleasant and grueling ones. For my parents’ parents, as long as the Cossacks
were not hunting them down, America was great! When hospitals didn’t want to
grant internships to Jewish medical grads, the Jews built some of the best
hospitals in America – hospitals that currently serve many “underprivileged”
patients being supported by the government.
* * *
As I reminisce about my train ride,
I am so grateful to the wonderful friends, teachers, and role models I’ve met
on my journey. I am especially grateful to my incredible wife Arleeta for being
a true aishes chayil, aizer k’negdo, and outstanding mother. Our “shadchan” was NCSY, and I’m so
privileged to have ridden the train with Rabbi Pinchas Stolper, zt”l, NCSY’s founder and my former boss.
I’m thankful for all those who were on my train for strongly influencing me. As
each of these mentors stepped off the train, no one came on to fill their
seats. Although there is a famous statement, “no one is irreplaceable,” I have
come to understand that there are people who are uniquely irreplaceable. My
train ride has crisscrossed the United States and the Atlantic and Pacific
Oceans. I do not take for granted that, when Arleeta agreed to board my train,
she was okay to not know the route or the destination. Of course, neither did
I!
* *
*
Just over 47 years ago, Arleeta
agreed to take a leap of faith with me and move to California with our five
children ranging in age from eight to two-year-old twins. At the time, we had
barely $2,000, no guarantee of a job, and no specific place to move into. Some
might say it was insane – actually, some did! Nevertheless, with youthful
confidence and emunah, we took a road
trip in our nine-passenger Chevy wagon towing a U-Haul, and set out for Los
Angeles.
Important
note: In the mid- to late-70s, California was a splendid place to live.
Ronald Reagan had been the two-term governor. Neither Disneyland nor any of the
amusement parks were woke – in fact, they were places that reinforced solid
family values – which made raising a family with moral values easier. Of course,
there were pockets of “insanity” and immorality – but those people were a small
minority. Back then, California hospitalized the insane; nowadays, many are
elected officials. Back then, criminals were apprehended and arrested;
nowadays, they clean out Walgreens. So, for the most part, California was just
a lovely place to live.
After an 11-day road trip, which had
a few exciting moments, we arrived at an unmarried friend’s apartment in LA.
Our friend was kind enough to temporarily move out to give our family a place
to stay. Within 10 days, we moved into a small rented house in Long Beach, one
mile from the Chabad shul, our kids were enrolled in Camp Gan Israel, and
shortly thereafter, I was asked to become the principal of the fledgling Hebrew
Academy of Orange County. We became part of a young growing community, and our
kids had lots of friends.
I fondly recall our first California
December with no freezing weather and average daytime temperatures around 70° F.
It was, for us, absolutely fantastic. No overcoats, earmuffs, gloves, or boots.
Arleeta would take the twins to the beach to play in the sand, which was free,
enjoyable, and entertaining. When we heard of snow and ice storms “back East,”
it reinforced for us that we had made a good decision. The beautiful train
video brought back a flow of memories from our cross-country adventure and the
Divine assistance that we received on our trip.
* * *
Early one lovely Friday morning in
July, we left Amarillo, Texas, headed for Albuquerque New Mexico for Shabbos.
As we traversed the Southern Rocky Mountains, our old Chevy struggled to make
the 7,600 foot climb. Our roof rack was overloaded as was our U-Haul trailer.
At 6,500 feet, our exhausted and overheated car would go no further. I
carefully drifted onto the shoulder. Those were the days before cell phones,
but they were also the days when it was natural for people to stop and help
others. The first person to stop was a real cowboy – boots, hat, vest, and a
big pick-up truck. He said, “You’re in a national forest; I’ll get one of the rangers
to tow you off the mountain.” And less than 30 minutes later, a monster tow truck
with lights flashing appeared.
The ranger looked exactly as I had
pictured him: tall, sturdy, badge on his cowboy-style snap shirt pocket, Western
gun belt, cowboy boots, and a ten-gallon hat. He said, “Welcome to mountain
country – you’re my fifth tow of the day. You East Coast city folks don’t
realize that you could never get to the summit in this city car with that load.
I’ll take you up to the summit, and then we’ll see how badly you damaged you
car.” Now imagine this today. The ranger (who was a police officer) said, “Because
there’s seven of you, I can’t fit you all in my truck, and seeing that we’ve
got a distance to go, you all just stay in your seats until we get to the
summit.”
We sat in our car being towed by a
policeman on a curvy mountain road! For the kids, it was quite exciting. A half-hour
later, we were at the summit at ranger headquarters. From there it was a steep
descent towards Albuquerque. The rangers were so accommodating. One of them
checked out our car and said, “You are one fortunate family. You could have
burned out the transmission, but somehow, it seems okay. Just be careful on
your descent because the second most popular thing Eastern City folk do is burn
out their brakes on the way down. Occasionally those brakes catch fire. (Those
were the days of old-fashioned brake pads and brake shoes.) So, put your car in
low gear, only pump the brakes occasionally – and because that trailer is
pushing you – pull off every time you see a sign saying “Truck Escape.” Let
your brakes cool off and then proceed.” I was so grateful! We thanked the rangers,
and I asked about paying for their efforts. The ranger who towed us said, “This
is part of our job, just like the Coast Guard is there for water rescues, we’re
here to do mountain rescues.”
Fortunately, even though we lost a
couple of hours on the mountain, it was summer, so our time till Shabbos was okay.
In planning our trip, using printed maps and AAA “triptiks.” (Israel hadn’t yet
invented Waze or Google GPS.) I optimistically booked hotels along the way,
requesting interconnecting rooms. Sometimes we had two cribs in our room;
sometimes we put all five kids in the other room. Our needs in those days were
pretty simple. We lived off of kosher products that could be found in any big
supermarket: lots of fruit, vegetables, cereal, cottage cheese, and tuna. For
Shabbos, we assumed we would eat very basic food with some baked beans, corn,
and maybe string beans added, along with matza, and, of course, grape juice. We
knew that a long summer Shabbos in two rooms would be a challenge, so we made
sure that the hotel we reserved in Albuquerque had a playground.
As we drove into town towards our
hotel, I didn’t see any large food market chain stores. Hoping for the best, we
pulled into Silver Spurs Market. We all went in together. Doniel and Ari were
wearing baseball caps and T-shirts with their tzitzis hanging out. As Arleeta and I were hunting for hashgachas, a man in a cowboy hat came
over and said, “Shalom aleichem, I’m
the owner/manager. I haven’t seen tzitzis,
other than mine, in here before.” The manager (I wish I could remember his
name) said that he was from Brooklyn and had moved to New Mexico for health
reasons. He asked us what we were doing there, and we explained. He then said,
“Follow me.” He took us to a walk-in freezer in the back of the market and said,
“Take what you need.” The freezer was filled with kosher products that he kept
for himself and his family. Back then, Chabad hadn’t yet arrived in
Albuquerque. We didn’t want to be greedy, but he was well stocked, so we took
what we needed for a special Shabbos! We also bought lots of ice for our ice
chest hoping that we could retard spoilage. The man insisted that we only pay
him his cost. We bought lots of foil (for double wrapping if we located a
cooking source) as well as some nice quality paper and plastic goods (we had
been using very inexpensive stuff) and headed to the hotel. Upon arrival we
were glad to see that the hotel was located on a sprawling hillside (not just a
roadside building). There were picnic areas, playgrounds, and kiddie pools.
At the check-in office, the desk
clerk said, “I have your rooms, but unfortunately they don’t connect!”
I said, “I need interconnecting
rooms; we have little kids.” The kindly clerk thought for a minute and said, “Ya
know, my manager is away for the weekend. How about if I give you his cabin!
It’s clean, and occasionally, if we need to, we rent it out.” I said, “That’s
fantastic.” By then, it was two-and-a-half hours till Shabbos. We pulled up to
the cabin. It had a living room, dining room, and full kitchen with a big
fridge and a gas range and oven. It had a fenced-in patio with a picnic table,
lounge chairs, and a fenced in pool. We had everything we needed for a
wonderful erev Shabbos, Shabbos, and motza’ei Shabbos. Talk about G-d
watching over “fools and children”! Hashem was clearly looking out for us, His
children.
* * *
I hadn’t actually thought much about
how our California adventure was just the beginning of many special adventures
and opportunities that would take us from the West Coast of the U.S. to Sydney,
Australia, and onward to Cape Town, South Africa. Actually, I hadn’t thought
about our 3,000-mile family road trip for decades until viewing the train video,
which caused a cascade of memories.
Two special events (besides Shabbos)
stand out. The first started with our youngest twin, Michoel, being overtired
as we were headed from Indiana to Missouri. Michoel was a pretty easy kid, but
he needed his sleep. As we rolled into Illinois, he started a screaming mantra
– “I want to go upstairs to my bed” – which went on and on. After an hour,
Doniel, who was eight, climbed over the seat and yelled over his brother’s
screaming, “We’re in a car; there’s no upstairs and no bed. Knock it off.” When
that didn’t work, Doniel said, “I have a great idea – give the kid a few
sandwiches and leave him on the side of the road. Someone will find him.”
Arleeta, noting the look on my face, said, “No, we’re not doing that!” She
always made sure to keep things under control. By the way, because we didn’t
leave Michoel on the roadside, he’s now, b”H,
living with his wife Tamar and their children and grandchildren in Eretz Yisrael,
where he is a rosh mesifta. Ya never
know! Oh, and his bed is on the first floor, not upstairs, in their home in
Kiryat Sefer.
The other special event happened in
Flagstaff, Arizona. After our wonderful Albuquerque Shabbos, we stayed a bit
longer on Sunday morning enjoying the private pool and finishing off delicious
leftovers. We then headed to Flagstaff. We arrived later than expected, just
before sunset at around 8:00 p.m. We checked into the Best Western Motel and
were given our room keys. After our luxurious Shabbos cabin, the Best Western
was, to say the least, a letdown. The rooms were grungy and had shag carpet
(yes, shag carpet in a hotel – feh). There it was, right in my line of vision
as I entered the not fresh smelling room. A huge toenail was perched on the
carpet! I turned around and said, “Arleeta there’s no way. We’re not staying in
this dump.”
Arleeta replied, “Look, the kids are
tired. It’s only one night; let’s make the best of it.”
I said, “No, I will have nightmares
about being attacked by a toenail. We’ll find another place to stay.” Now,
here’s where my thinking was a bit off. I still possessed my Eastern Seaboard
mentality, thinking that if you don’t find a hotel in Elkton, Maryland, you’ll
find one in Wilmington, Delaware. Or if you don’t find one at Exit 2 of the NJ turnpike,
you’ll find one at the next exit. So, I confidently reloaded the car – thank
G-d I got gas – and we stopped at a few other hotels in Flagstaff, but everything
was booked. I confidently said, “No problem, we’ll find a hotel in the next
town.” Well, guess what?! There was no next town! Just desert, and more desert.
Miles of deserted, desolate desert with signs warning of rattle snakes and Gila
monsters. (Look them up; they are lovely poisonous lizards with a low threshold
for humor.)
At about 11:00 p.m., four of the
kids were asleep, but Michoel (the screamer) had just woken up. Before he
disturbed anyone, Arleeta did a “Batya.” Somehow, she managed to extend her arm
like a telescope and grab Michoel from the seat behind us and put him on her
lap. He put his head on her shoulder and went back to sleep. As we continued
driving on the very dark, deserted highway I was becoming more and more
concerned but tried not to show it. I said, “Wow, have you ever seen so many
stars?” – to which Arleeta replied, “My entire side is numb from holding
Michoel. If I dare move an inch, he’ll wake up and wake everyone else up; just
find a place. I don’t care if it has toenails and fingernails in the carpet;
just find a place!”
Being perceptive, I realized that my
wife didn’t seem too pleased with the situation. Finally, at 4:15 a.m., I saw
what appeared to be a neon sign in the distance. I prayed, please let it be a
hotel, and let them have two rooms…please!” As we got closer I saw the sign, “Holiday
Inn Kingman – Last Hotel before California.” As I pulled in, the first rays of
light were starting to break over the horizon. Arleeta stayed in the car, with
Michoel still on her lap, as I went in! Never had I been so grateful. They had
two interconnecting rooms and two cribs in the storage room. Eureka!! I came
out to the car holding the keys. Arleeta, holding out her right hand, said, “Key
– hand me a key!” Then she handed me Michoel and said, “All yours,” and
stumbled to the room, opened the door and passed out on the bed. Out cold!
At that moment everyone, including
Michoel, was waking up from their night’s sleep as the sun was breaking over
the horizon. I hadn’t yet unloaded the car when someone said, “Hey look, a
playground.” Everyone piled out of the car and ran to the swings, sliding
board, and jungle gym. It was 4:45 a.m. The temperature was already 85° F., and
the kids were ready for action. So, I figured this was a good time for Shacharis.
I had split kavanah as I davened and
kept an eye on the kids. Half- an-hour later, our daughter D’vorah said, “Look,
a kids pool.” I decided at that point to make life simple. I said, “Take off
your shoes and just jump in.”
For a millisecond, everyone
hesitated, then splash, splash, splash. Although it was a kiddie pool, I had to
keep a careful eye on everyone, especially Ezra and Michoel, who were the
youngest! At about 7:00 a.m., I took stuff out of the ice chest and the food
box and gave everyone some breakfast. Although their clothes were wet, it was
now 95° F. (and less than 10% humidity). By noon, the kids were exhausted. I
introduced them to their beds. Their clothes had already dried, and the two
cribs were set up. They all conked out. I unloaded the car and passed out next
to Arleeta, who was still wearing her dress and was sound asleep. In fact,
everyone except me was asleep in their clothes. By 4:00 p.m., everyone was
ready for a new day of exploration and excitement.
* * *
Leaving our cross-country road trip,
I’ll finish off with a memory from our next “train stop,” Sydney, Australia.
After spending more than a decade in
Southern California, we were presented with an opportunity to move to Sydney.
Doniel and D’vorah were already learning in Israel, Ari was entering tenth
grade, and the twins were just beginning secondary school. The chance to run an
educational counseling center and to work with day schools in Australia and New
Zealand was too interesting and exciting to pass up. Unlike our move to
California, this one was really far. Once again, I was incredibly grateful that
Arleeta was up for another adventure.
Sydney is quite a large city. The
core of the frum community is located
in an area called the Eastern Suburbs, which incorporates Bondi, Dover Heights,
and Belleview Hill. When we were deciding on a place to live, someone suggested
a small, recently established Jewish community in St. Ives on the North Shore.
There was a community day school there with a proper minyan that met on the school’s
campus. We also learned that Chabad was planning to open a North Shore branch.
It’s interesting that the main
Chabad center in Bondi was run by Rabbi Pinchus Feldman, the son of my 11th
grade TA rebbe, Rabbi Mendel Feldman, zt”l,
who was the Rav of Baltimore’s Glen Avenue Shul. Rav Mendel subsequently became
a rabbinic mentor of mine. Rabbi Pinchus Feldman’s oldest daughter Fruma was
destined to marry Rabbi Nachum Schapiro and establish Chabad on the North
Shore. Fruma’s sister Nechama would eventually marry Rabbi Levi Shemtov. They
would move soon after to Washington D.C. and become the Chabad Capitol Hill
power couple. I knew Levi when he was a bachur.
Even then it was clear that he was destined to accomplish great things.
Notwithstanding the 45-minute
commute to my office and the twins’ yeshiva, we decided to move to St. Ives,
where the scenery was beautiful and the community was young and growing. In a
way it was similar to our previous experience, years earlier, when we chose
Long Beach over Los Angeles. At the time, you could get twice the house for
half the price on the North Shore. Our St. Ives home, on the edge of the
Ku-ring-gai National Park, had a beautiful veranda. Stunning wild (but
amazingly friendly) parrots, rainbow parakeets, spectacular Lorikeets, bright
red rosellas, and giant cockatoos would land on our back deck seeking fruit and
berries, which they would eat out of our hands. Wallabies and kangaroos would
emerge from the forest from time to time. The downside was that the
dinner-plate-sized Huntsman spiders, the world’s biggest spiders, together with
funnel-web spiders, the world’s deadliest, also showed up from time to time. We
learned not to reach into our mailbox without first looking and to be very careful
around nooks and crannies where funnel-webs hide. Oh, then there were the blue tongue
lizards that liked to hang out in our neighborhood. These fearsome looking two-foot
creatures are relatively harmless to humans, notwithstanding the hissing sound
emanating from their snake-like heads. Speaking of snakes, we were introduced
to another lovely creature native to our area, the death adder. As its name
implies, it is the world’s deadliest snake. We didn’t know these little details
before moving to the North Shore. It was then that I understood why the
overwhelming majority of Jews chose to live in the overdeveloped Eastern
Suburbs.
On the day that we were moving into
our St. Ives home, Ari, Ezra, and Michoel pulled out a baseball bat and ball
and a few baseball gloves and walked across the street to the small park
opposite our house. There was a seven-year-old boy observing them from a
distance. The little boy raced home to his mother and exclaimed, “There are
boys in the park wearing kippahs, and they are wearing a tallis under their shirts, and they are playing a game that is sort
of like cricket but the ball and bat are weird.”
It’s important to understand that
most of the Jews on the North Shore were not observant and very limited in
their knowledge of Judaism. The boy’s mom ran out to see what her son observed.
The lady, Zara Gordon, and her son Dan were at our front door five minutes
later to introduce themselves and welcome us. Later, Zara brought her husband
Hedley and their 11-year-old daughter Kezi to meet the “Americans.” That was
the beginning of many Shabbosim that the Gordons spent in our home. Dan
idolized Ezra and Michoel, and when D’vorah came home during Nissan, Kezi
bonded with her.
Thirty-six years have passed. Kezi
has for many years been a popular rebbetzin in the London suburb of Brondesbury
Park, married to an outstanding rav, Rabbi Boruch Levin. They have a large
congregation and a large family. Dan went on to yeshiva, became a talmid chacham, then went to medical
school and is now an outstanding otolaryngologist and surgeon residing with his
family in the very frum suburb of Caulfield
in Melbourne. Hedley and Zara have been shomer
mitzvos for years and regularly host for Chabad.
I recall when Dan was eight years
old, he kept bothering his father to buy him tzitzis like Ezra and Michoel wore. Finally, one Sunday, Dan’s dad
took him to a North Shore Judaica shop. Dan asked if they had tzitzis. The man said, “We actually do
have some; in fact, I have a couple of pairs in your size. The man placed the tzitzis on the counter, and they were
priced differently. Dan asked the man why they were they priced differently.
The man said “I don’t know.”
Dan then whispered to his father, “I
don’t want to buy tzitzis from a man
who doesn’t know the difference. They left the store, and Dan’s dad drove him
to the frum shop in Bondi, where the
man knew the difference and even explained the mitzva!
* * *
As Arleeta and I assess our train
ride, we realize that we needed to be in certain places, at certain times, for
specific reasons, and likely a Divine purpose. From our early days as NCSY
leaders through our rabbinate in South Africa, we have been immensely grateful
to have had the tremendous opportunities to meet so many wonderful and special
people who became our extended family. We are so truly blessed and profoundly
grateful to Hashem to still be riding on the train together and still awaiting,
with Hashem’s blessing, for our next adventure.
