Rabbi Yoel Gold

You Are Worth It

It was the final week of high school. I was preparing to graduate from Adelphia Yeshiva, filled with anticipation for the next chapter of my life. My plan was clear: I would be continuing the following year in Passaic, New Jersey.

Then, one day, my rebbe, Rabbi Dovid Trenk zt”l, walked into the Beis Medrash, sat down beside me, and said quietly, “Yoeli, I want you to stay next year in Adelphia to help build the Beis Medrash.”

My heart sank.

At that time, the Beis Medrash was just beginning. There were only three students. If I stayed, I would be the fourth. It was not yet a fully developed makom Torah, and I had already set my sights elsewhere. I responded honestly. “Rebbe, I’m planning to go to Passaic. I don’t think I can stay.” But it is not easy to say no to a rebbe like Rabbi Trenk. I asked for time to think it over.

The next day, he returned and said simply, “Yoeli, get into the car.” “Where are we going?” I asked. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

We drove down Route 9 and onto the Staten Island Expressway. Then he turned to me and said, “I’m taking you to a din Torah. We’re going to ask Rav Shmuel Berenbaum what you should do.” A short while later, we arrived. Rav Shmuel welcomed us in, and we sat down together. Rabbi Trenk began to speak, and then, unexpectedly, he broke down in tears.

“Rebbe,” he said, “Yoeli has spent four years in Adelphia. I want him to stay another year to help build the Beis Medrash. Please tell him to stay.”

Rav Shmuel then turned to me, took my hand, and gently asked, “Nu, what do you say?” With a trembling voice, I answered, “Rosh Yeshiva, I am deeply grateful—to my rebbe, to the yeshiva—but I feel it is time for me to move on. I believe I will grow more in Passaic.” He looked at me and said simply, “If you will learn better there, then go.”

I turned to Rabbi Trenk. There was a faint smile on his face.

We got back into the car and drove home in silence.

The following year, I went to Passaic. And from time to time, Rabbi Trenk would come visit. He would walk straight into the Beis Medrash, come over to my seat, lift me up in a warm embrace, and say, “Yoeli, I am so proud of you.”

Twenty years later, I received the call. The rebbetzin informed me that Rebbe had passed away. I flew from Los Angeles to Lakewood, and throughout the flight, I replayed memories—moments, conversations, experiences—that had shaped my life.

And then I remembered that episode.

I felt a deep sense of guilt. After the shivah, I called the rebbetzin and said, “Do you remember what happened? I feel like I owe Rebbe an apology.”

She began to laugh gently. “Yoeli,” she said, “you do not owe my husband an apology. He knew it was time for you to go. He understood that. But he wanted you to know how much he wanted you to stay. How much he valued you.”

Then she said something I will never forget.

“He wanted you to carry that with you into life. So that when you face challenges, when things become difficult—as they do for everyone—you will remember that you are worth fighting for.”

In that moment, everything became clear.  Like a light turning on, I realized that throughout the years, whenever I struggled, I kept pushing forward. I kept fighting. Because somewhere deep within me, my rebbe had planted that truth: you are worth fighting for.

And that is a message not just for me, but for every person. Your ruchniyus is worth fighting for. Your struggles do not define you, and your setbacks do not disqualify you. No matter how many times a person falls—once, a hundred times, a thousand times—it does not matter. Get back up and continue fighting.

Because you are worth fighting for.

Rabbi Eliyahu Maksumov

The Vault of Starvation

There was once an extraordinarily wealthy man, a person of immense means and influence. At a press conference, he rose with striking confidence and made a bold declaration. “I am so wealthy,” he proclaimed, “that there is one thing I can say with absolute certainty: I will never die of starvation. It is simply impossible. I possess more than enough resources to secure all the food in the world. Of all the ways a person might die, starvation is the one fate that could never be mine.”

He spoke with complete assurance, convinced that his wealth placed him beyond vulnerability.

Yet only a few days later, he was found dead.

What had happened? The man had gone to inspect his vault, the very place where his fortune was stored. As he entered, the heavy door shut behind him, sealing him inside. Trapped in silence, he cried out desperately, but the vault was soundproof. No one heard his pleas. No one knew he was missing. Days passed before anyone realized something was wrong.

When they finally opened the vault, they discovered him inside.

The cause of death was starvation.

The man placed his trust entirely in himself, in his wealth, in his perceived control over life’s uncertainties. But in a single moment, all of that proved meaningless. The very riches he believed guaranteed his survival became irrelevant.

No matter how secure a person may feel, everything can change in an instant. True security does not lie in wealth, power, or human capability. Ultimately, one must recognize that reliance on anything other than Hashem is fragile, and that all sustenance, protection, and life itself come only from Him.

Rabbi Joey Haber

A Shirt Fit For Kings

A few years ago, I shared a story that, quite unexpectedly, took on a life of its own. It was about the well-known Charles Tyrwhitt shirt company, whose owners are based in London. Through their internal research, they discovered something astonishing: their highest-selling “store” in the world was not located on a prestigious avenue or in a major commercial hub, but in a modest home in Lakewood, New Jersey.

Intrigued, the owners traveled to see it for themselves. What they encountered was not a storefront in the conventional sense, but a simple house operating on trust and community values. At one point, a customer arrived to purchase several shirts and was casually directed to retrieve them from the garage and leave payment behind. The owners were stunned. “You trust people to just leave the money?” they asked. “That’s how this town works,” the owner responded.

To understand the phenomenon, they were taken to Beth Medrash Govoha. Standing above a massive study hall filled with hundreds—indeed, thousands—of students, they were shown something remarkable: row after row of individuals, all wearing the same style of shirt. In that moment, they understood. This was culture, identity, and shared values expressed even in something as simple as clothing.

The story spread widely. Months later, while traveling with a group, a young woman approached me and introduced herself as the daughter of the Lakewood distributor behind that very story. With a smile, she said that in their home there had been an ongoing debate: who made whom famous?

I shared with her a personal anecdote. My wife had once called her father to place a large order. I suggested, half-jokingly, that she mention who she was—perhaps we might receive a discount, or at least some recognition. She refused. “It doesn’t matter who I am,” my wife said. “I’m just buying shirts.” And that was that.

The girl laughed and told me the other side. After that very call, her father had come into the house astonished. “Do you believe,” he said, “that Rabbi Haber’s wife just called and didn’t say a word about who she was? I could hear him in the background encouraging her to say something—and she wouldn’t!”

Then she shared something even more striking. Some of the shirts produced in Lakewood are uniquely tailored to the needs and preferences of that community. At one point, the company in London requested that one of these distinctive shirts be sent overseas. Only later did they discover the reason: it was intended as a gift for the King of England.

The family was thrilled. “Imagine,” they said, “a shirt from our home being worn by the king.”

I told her something that reframed the entire moment.

“You’re excited about a shirt going to a king of flesh and blood,” I said. “But do you realize? Every day, your shirts are worn by bnei Torah. You are clothing not one king, but thousands.”

The message is simple, yet profound. We often measure greatness by external titles and public stature. But in truth, our identity is far greater. We are bnei Torah, children of the King of Kings. We are sustained, guided, and cared for in ways that transcend the natural order.

And when a person truly understands that, it transforms not only how they see the world, but how they are expected to respond to it.

Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

Tears for Eternity

My son-in-law, R’ Shloime Grossnass, once shared with me a remarkable story passed down through his family.

In the 1920s, his great-great-grandparents were forced to relocate from Poland to Germany. One Friday evening, their teenage son was walking home when he suddenly heard the sound of crying—deep, heartfelt sobbing—coming from a nearby house. Drawn by the intensity of the moment, he approached the window.

Inside, a woman had just lit her Shabbos candles.

With tears streaming down her face, she poured out her heart in tefillah: “V’zakeini le’gadel banim u’bnei banim…her children should grow to be wise, G-d-fearing, devoted to Torah and good deeds.” Her words were not routine. They were alive, filled with longing, with a mother’s deepest yearning.

The boy stood there, transfixed. He had never heard such sincerity, such depth, such pleading before. In that moment, something shifted within him. A decision crystallized. “I want to become the kind of talmid chacham she is davening for. I want to live with that yiras Shamayim.”

The next day, he told his parents that he wanted to travel to Radin to learn in the yeshiva. They agreed, and he began preparing. The journey was long and difficult, but he arrived determined and hopeful. He was tested.

And then he was told: “We’re sorry. You’re not yet on the level required to keep up with the yeshiva.” He was crushed. All the effort, all the preparation, all the anticipation collapsed in an instant. He left the building, sat down on a bench, and broke into tears.

At that moment, Rabbi Naftali Troup passed by and noticed him. “What happened?” he asked gently. “Why are you so distressed?” The boy explained everything—his journey, his aspiration, his rejection. “Where are you from?” the Rav asked. “Germany.” “Aren’t there yeshivos in Germany?”

“Yes,” the boy replied. “But there, they learn during the day. Here, they learn day and night—Shabbos and Motzei Shabbos, Yom Tov and after Yom Tov. Here, Torah is everything. That is what I want.” When Rabbi Naftali Troup heard those words, he paused. And then said, “If that is what you desire, come. You are accepted.”

From that point on, the young man flourished. He grew into one of the most outstanding students in the yeshiva, and later continued his learning in Baranovich under Rabbi Baruch Ber Leibowittz zt”l. He became one of his closest and most distinguished students. In time, he married, and eventually became a leading Rav, known as Rabbi Aryeh Leib Grossnass, the Av Beis Din of London.

But the story does not begin there.

It begins with a woman. A mother standing alone, on a quiet Friday evening, lighting candles and crying.

Imagine, after one hundred and twenty years, when she ascends to Shamayim. She is shown generations of talmidei chachamim, generations of yirei Shamayim, entire worlds of Torah that emerged from that single moment of tefillah.

“Look,” they will tell her. “See what your tears created. See what your yearning built.” The greatness of Torah does not begin in the Beis Medrash. It begins in the heart of a mother.

It is the Jewish women—their tefillos, their sacrifices, their quiet devotion—who plant the seeds of eternity. They infuse their children with emunah, with values, with a love for Torah that shapes not only a life, but generations.

And sometimes, one tear, just one, can change the destiny of the world.

Forever.

Rabbi Bentzion Shafier

The Elephant’s Trunk

A male African elephant, weighing as much as 14,000 pounds at full maturity and standing approximately eleven feet tall at the shoulder, is a creature of immense size and quiet majesty. Yet among its many remarkable features, none is more extraordinary than its trunk.

This singular appendage is a marvel of design. Composed of some 40,000 interwoven muscles and sinews, the trunk possesses both extraordinary strength and delicate precision. With it, the elephant can perform feats of remarkable finesse, lifting something as small as a coin from the ground, while also wielding enough power to hoist logs weighing hundreds of pounds.

Why was the elephant endowed with such a structure?

The answer lies in its needs. An adult elephant in the wild consumes staggering quantities of vegetation, often up to 350 pounds each day. Without such an appendage, it would be forced to bend constantly to the ground or strain upward to reach foliage. The trunk enables the elephant to feed itself efficiently, granting it both reach and control, allowing it to gather food with ease and sustain its immense body.

When one reflects on this, one cannot help but recognize the wisdom and kindness of the Creator. Each creature is endowed with what it requires, and through that, we come to perceive the depth of care with which the world itself was formed.

Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

A Favorable Time

A woman once came to the Brisker Rav toward the end of his life, when he was living in Yerushalayim. She was childless and came seeking a beracha. The Rav, however, did not receive her immediately. He instructed his family to ask her to return later that day.

This was no small request. She had traveled all the way from Bnei Brak and it was a burden for her to come again, but she did. When she returned that evening, the Rav once again asked that she come back the following morning.

Finally, when she came in the morning, he received her and gave her a heartfelt beracha that she should merit to have a child. The family was perplexed. Why delay her so many times? Why not give the beracha immediately?

They were hesitant to ask directly. Instead, they turned to Rabbi Elazar Shach zt”l and requested that he inquire on their behalf. When Rav Shach asked, the Brisker Rav answered with characteristic precision and depth.

“A beracha,” he explained, “is not something one gives casually. A beracha is most effective at an es ratzon, a moment of Divine favor, a time when the Heavenly gates are open.”

He continued. “I was in the midst of completing a mesechta. I anticipated finishing at night, and I waited for that moment. But I was unable to complete it then. Only in the morning did I finish. And when one completes a mesechta, it is an es ratzon. The Tannaim and Amoraim are present. There is a unique opportunity for tefillah to be received.”

“And so,” he concluded, “I waited. I waited until the right moment, until it was an es ratzon, to give the beracha.”

Not every moment is the same. There are times in life when the gates feel closed, and times when they are wide open. The wisdom lies not only in what we ask for, but in recognizing when to ask.

And sometimes, the difference between delay and fulfillment is not rejection, but preparation for the moment when Heaven is most ready to respond.