Last Spring, I was mesmerized by my first Waterfalls, a Chinese auction sponsored by Kollel Avodas Levi of Yeshiva Ner Israel. For several years, I had studied the Waterfalls catalog and purchased tickets from 700 miles away. I hoped I would win and wished that I could attend in person. Now, back in Baltimore, that wish came true – at least part of it. I didn’t win a prize – not the exciting ones displayed around the perimeter of the room. But something positive happened when I attended my first Waterfalls and gave tzedaka to a Jewish institution that I love.
My connection with Ner Israel began before my sons learned there. Growing up in Baltimore, I attended seventh grade at Garrison Junior High. One winter day, there was a fierce snowstorm that came down so heavily that we were let out of school early. Trudging through the snow on Garrison Boulevard in hopes of catching a ride home to Shirley Avenue, I remember walking by a huge mansion that was the Yeshiva’s first building. For a fleeting moment, I wondered what was going on inside.
Then, decades later, when I visited my sons who were students at the expansive Ner Israel campus in Pikesville, I found out. I remember the first time I opened the door to the Beis Midrash looking for my oldest son; I almost fell backwards. The thundering voices of hundreds of young men learning Torah in white shirts and black kippos filled the room and bounced off the walls.
When I was in my early 40s, and living in Atlanta for almost 25 years, my mother, a”h, passed away – my dear mother who, only after 10 years of my living miles away, shared how hard it had been for her when I, her only daughter, had left Baltimore. Now she was gone. I was so overcome with grief that I didn’t know what to do, how to act – nothing. So my father, a”h, and I drove to Ner Israel. There, Rabbi Leib Hoffman guided me and then presided over my mother’s levaya. Throughout the years, baruch Hashem, Rabbi Hoffman has been there offering comfort for losses and wishing me mazal tov on simchas.
Atlanta is very connected to Ner Israel. Many leaders and rebbeim of the Atlanta Scholars Kollel, Seed programs, and teachers for the day schools come from Baltimore. Both Rabbi Emanuel Feldman, rabbi emeritus, and his son, Rabbi Ilan Feldman, Rav of Congregation Beth Jacob, received smicha at the Yeshiva. And Rabbi Ilan’s wife, Miriam Feldman, my mentor and friend, is the daughter of Rabbi Shmuel Yaakov Weinberg, zt”l, the former Rosh Yeshiva of Ner Israel, and his wife Chana Weinberg, a”h.
From Atlanta, I sometimes called Rabbi Weinberg for advice. Taking a deep breath, I would dial his number. His warm hello put me at ease. Often the Rosh Yeshiva would say to call him back at night. At other times, he gave me the answer right away.
The most important advice he gave me was at the end of a conversation about looking for another job because a business, started several years earlier, wasn’t bringing in money yet. The Rosh Yeshiva asked if we could wait three months before giving up. I told him I thought we could. And then Rabbi Weinberg added, in these exact words, “Forgive me for reminding you that Hakadosh Baruch Hu is cradling you in His arms.” I asked the Rebbe to please repeat what he said, because I wanted to remember his words forever.
We waited three months as Rabbi Weinberg advised, and the business took off. Most important, whenever I’ve faced challenges, I’ve recalled the Rosh Yeshiva’s message that Hakadosh Baruch Hu is cradling me in His arms. Now the Rebbe is gone, but his memory lives on and, baruch Hashem, so does Ner Israel.
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So last year, on April 29, at Beth Tfiloh, with hundreds of other women, I attended my first Waterfalls sponsored by the Ner Israel Women’s League, I bought lots of raffle tickets. First, I placed the tickets in the boxes for the prizes I hoped I’d win: trips, sheitels, so many choices. Then I tasted the sweet chicken and rice, veggies, and delicious desserts catered by the Knish Shop. I didn’t know many people yet, after my return to Baltimore, and much conversation was going on around me, so I walked into the foyer to call my husband and ask if I should buy more tickets. I sat down at the corner of a long wooden bench near another woman and introduced myself. Then I took out my cell phone and dialed my husband’s number. The call didn’t go through.
“Reception isn’t good here,” the woman said. I shared my dilemma of whether I should buy more tickets. “You can take it off your meiser money,” she offered. “Then if you win a prize, you deduct that amount of the ticket.” By this time her teenage daughter, dressed in a stylish black-and-white striped outfit with matching eyeglasses, walked over and her mother introduced her. As I got up to leave I thought, should I wish them hatzlacha on winning a prize? I wanted to win also.
“I hope you do well,” I said getting up from the bench to buy more tickets. I was glad I wished her well. Why not?
“Around 10 p.m., everyone sat or stood around as the prize tickets were drawn. I heard oohs and aahs from every part of the huge hall. People sitting at a table with winners, rejoiced with them. A group of young girls, who had volunteered that night, practically jumped out of their seats when the name of one of their friends was called. One prize after another was claimed. One or two names I recognized, and that was uplifting, but my name was never called. This was my first Waterfalls, and I wanted to win also. Maybe next year I won’t stay the whole night, I thought. It’s too disappointing.
As hundreds of us left the hall, I was surrounded by many people, but suddenly right next to me was the woman and her daughter whom I had met earlier.
“We won a couple of prizes,” she said, her face lighting up. “You gave us a bracha.”
“I did? I only wished you well.”
“That was a bracha,” she insisted.
And that became my prize at my first Waterfalls. Please Hashem, I will attend this year’s Waterfalls, purchasing lots of tickets hoping to win and wishing the same for others. And I plan to stay until the end. Who knows? Something else special might happen.
