Rabbi Ari Bensoussan

The Airport Pick Up

Let me tell you something that happened years ago.

I had just landed at LAX with my wife and children after a five-and-a-half-hour flight from New York. Five and a half hours with little kids. Need I say more? Actually, it wasn't so bad. A colleague happened to be sitting in the row right in front of us, and we had some wonderful conversations during the flight and he was great with the kids.

Finally, we landed.

Now, whenever we travel as a family, we use a terrific airport service. A driver takes your car, parks it while you're away, and then meets you at the airport in your own minivan when you return. It's a lifesaver. So we texted the airport driver: "We've landed." He replied, "Great."

We collected all our luggage—which, with seven people, felt like enough to relocate a small country—and headed outside. At that point, my wife texted him again. "We’re outside. Have you arrived?" His response was: "I'm on the way." My wife wasn't thrilled. Going through both our minds was, "We told you exactly when we'd land. We've been waiting out here with little kids." His answer was essentially, "I'll be there when I get there."

Now I'll be honest. The Moroccan inside me woke up. "He should have left earlier. This is unprofessional." And like every good Jew negotiating with himself, I came up with the perfect punishment. "I'm not giving him a tip." That'll teach him.

Twenty-five minutes later, the van finally pulled up. He opened the back, and then... he stood, texting on his phone, while I unloaded suitcase after suitcase after suitcase. Not one offer to help came from him. Inside my head I was thinking, "Definitely no tip. Unbelievable." Finally we loaded everything into the van, climbed inside, and started driving.

Trying to be polite, I asked him, "So... what's your name?" He answered. Immediately I recognized the accent. "You're Israeli?" “Yes,” he said. I smiled. "How's your family? Is everyone okay?" There was a long pause. Then he quietly said, "I'm flying back to Israel tonight." Another pause. "I've been called up to the army."

I wanted the floor beneath me to open. He looked at me and apologized. "I'm sorry I didn't help with the bags. I was texting my travel agent. They had just gotten back to me with my flight details and I had to confirm immediately."

I felt sick. "What unit are you in?" I asked. "I'm an engineer,” he said. At first, I didn't understand what that meant. Later I looked it up. Combat engineers go in before the frontline soldiers. They search for explosives and clear deadly minefields and traps. They make it possible for everyone else to advance. He wasn't behind the front lines. He was going in before the front lines.

And there I was… judging him, condemning him, and convicting him in my own mind without knowing the first thing about what he was carrying inside. I gave him a hug. We both cried. I asked for his name so I could daven for him. And yes... I gave him the tip.

Many times in life, we assume things. We write entire stories about people with very few verified facts, if almost no facts. We decide they're selfish or inconsiderate or rude, when in reality, we have no idea what battle they're fighting.

That is what it means to be a rodef shalom, someone who pursues peace. It means to train ourselves to create the most generous interpretation possible and remember that every person has a story we cannot see.

If we want to bring Jews together, we do so by stop judging each other based on a single moment. We stop writing negative stories in our minds, and instead, learn to write compassionate ones.

That's how love begins and that’s how love endures.

Rabbi Yaakov Vosoghi

The View From Heaven

Rav Chaim Vital, a student of the Arizal, relates that there was a relatively young widow, a woman in her late forties, whose husband had passed away tragically. Years had gone by, yet her grief remained as fresh as ever. Every Friday night, her children would come to visit her, and invariably she would begin crying uncontrollably over the loss of her husband.

The children tried everything to comfort her. They offered words of encouragement and consolation, but nothing seemed to help. She rejected every attempt at nechamah. No matter what anyone said, the pain remained.

One Friday night, approximately three years after her husband's passing, she went to sleep and had a dream. Most dreams, Chazal tell us, are insignificant (Berachos 55a). This dream, however, carried meaning.

In her dream, she was shown a vision of a beautiful forest and was led toward the entrance of Olam Haba (the World to Come). As she approached, she suddenly saw her deceased husband standing before her. Immediately she burst into tears. "Why did you leave me?" she cried. "How could you leave me alone with seven children?"

Her husband responded gently. "You have to understand. I am now in Olam HaEmet, the World of Truth. You are still in Olam Hazeh, a world in which reality is concealed and people do not see things clearly. What you call life is only a passing stage. What I now experience is eternal." Then he said, "Come with me. I want to show you something."

He explained that when he arrived in the Next World, he discovered a surprise that he himself had never known. "In a previous lifetime," he said, "I had been a great tzaddik. I learned an enormous amount of Torah and attained very lofty spiritual levels. There was only one problem: I never married. For whatever reason, the shidduchim never materialized. I was constantly learning, constantly growing, but I never built a family.

"When I arrived in Olam Haba, I was brought upward level after level. Then suddenly the ascent stopped. I wondered why. In Heaven they explained that although I had achieved much, I could not reach the highest level available to me because I had never married and never had children. I was then given a choice.

"They told me that if I wished to attain the highest level prepared for me, I would have to return to this world and complete what was lacking. So I chose to return.

"I came back and married you. And when our seventh child was born, my mission was complete. The moment that final child entered the world, my tikkun was finished and I was called back." His wife was astonished.

"But that doesn't make sense," she replied. "You weren't some great Torah scholar during our marriage. You learned here and there, but you weren't known as a major talmid chacham." He smiled. "Because my purpose this time was different. My mission was not to become a renowned scholar or review Shas ten times. My mission was to build a family, raise children, support a household, and complete what had been left unfinished from a previous life. Certainly I learned Torah and maintained fixed times for study, but my primary mission was elsewhere." At that point, she began asking him questions about their children.

"What about Yosef? He's struggling terribly with parnassah. Everything he touches seems to fail. He has children of his own and life has become so difficult for him. What's happening?" Her husband went on to explain.

"Do you remember the din Torah (court case) he had years ago?" She nodded. "He won the case. But during the proceedings, he caused another Jew a great deal of unnecessary anguish and emotional pain, and in Heaven they were very upset. A severe punishment had been decreed against him." The widow became alarmed. "What happened?"

"I intervened on his behalf and used some of my own merits to protect him. A compromise was reached in Heaven. Instead of suffering a physical punishment, he would endure several difficult years financially. Once that period ended, his situation would improve." The widow then continued.

"What about David? He's twenty-six years old and still unmarried. In our generation people married much younger. Not only has he not found a shidduch, but even if he did, I don't know how we could afford a wedding." Her husband replied.

"You are worried unnecessarily. His bashert is considerably younger than he is. She was born years after him and isn't even dating yet. In fact, she currently lives in another country. In a few years she will enter the shidduch process, they will meet, and they will marry. Everything is proceeding exactly according to plan." Then came the most painful question of all. The widow began crying.

"What about our three-year-old son? He was murdered by Arabs. What sin could a three-year-old child possibly have committed to deserve such a fate?" Her husband looked at her and said, "Come with me."

He led her to a special place in Olam Haba reserved for those who died al Kiddush Hashem. There she saw the soul of her child. Overwhelmed, she cried out, "My son! Why did you leave me?" The child, now speaking with the clarity of a neshama in the Olam Ha’Emet, answered, "Everything is governed by the precise calculations of the Ribbono Shel Olam." He then revealed that in a previous lifetime he had lived in a city that suffered a devastating pogrom. His family had attempted to flee, but they were all killed and he alone survived as a six-month-old infant. A non-Jew found him and raised him.

For nearly two and a half years he lived in that home and nursed from a non-Jewish woman. Eventually Jews discovered him and redeemed him, bringing him back into the Jewish community. Although there may have been no halachic issue, there remained a spiritual blemish that required rectification. "In Heaven," the child explained, "I was given the opportunity to return to this world, live for three years, complete my tikkun, and then return."

His mother then asked, "But why did you have to die in such a horrific way?" The child answered: "At that time, a severe decree had been issued against an entire Jewish community in Eretz Yisrael. A catastrophe was looming. For reasons beyond human understanding, Heaven chose me to serve as the atonement for that decree. Through my passing, an entire community was spared."

When the dream ended, the widow found herself profoundly comforted. Not because her pain had disappeared, but because she had glimpsed a reality far larger than the one she had previously known. Eventually she remarried and rebuilt her life.

Rabbi Chaim Vital records this story to teach a fundamental lesson.

We view life through the narrow lens of Olam Hazeh. We see perhaps one percent of reality. We have no idea where our neshamos come from. We have no idea what missions we are sent here to accomplish. We do not know what spiritual history precedes us, nor do we know what consequences our actions generate in Heaven.

Every neshama has its own mission. For one person, the mission may be to complete Shas. For another, it may be to build a family. For another, it may be to support a spouse and children. For another, it may be to endure years of challenge and hardship with dignity. And for some, their mission may simply be to remain emotionally healthy, functional, and faithful despite the challenges life has handed them.

This idea sheds light on the Gemara’s account of Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat (Taanis 25).

Rabbi Elazar lived in crushing poverty. Hashem appeared to him and asked whether he wanted the world to be recreated so that perhaps he might be born under a different mazal. The question is astonishing. Why recreate the entire world? Why not simply provide him with wealth?

The answer is that Rabbi Elazar did not fully understand the intricate network of Heavenly calculations that had shaped his life. He did not know where his neshama had originated, what mission it had been assigned, or how his poverty fit into the broader design of creation. Hashem was effectively telling him, "If you truly want a different life, I would have to recreate the entire order of creation itself. Given the world as it presently exists, this life is precisely the one best suited for your mission."

This is one of the most important lessons a person can internalize. Comparison is foolish because no two people have the same assignment. Every individual lives in a different world, with a different neshama, a different history, a different mission, and a different destiny. Our responsibility is not to compare our lives with the lives of others. Our responsibility is to identify the challenges Hashem has given us, embrace them, grow through them, and fulfill the purpose for which our souls were sent into this world.

Rabbi Avrohom M. Mendelson  

A Man of Spirit

One of the central themes of this period is our relationship with other people, or bein adam l'chaveiro.

As Moshe Rabbeinu nears the end of his life, he turns to Hashem with one final request. Klal Yisrael will soon need a new leader, someone to guide the nation after his passing. To that end, Moshe davens: "Yifkod Hashem Elokei haruchos l'chol basar...—May Hashem, the G-d of the spirits of all flesh, appoint a leader over the congregation” (Bamidbar 27:16). Rashi explains that the phrase "Elokei haruchos" refers to someone who understands that every individual is different. Every person has a unique temperament, unique strengths, unique struggles, and therefore each must be approached differently. There is no "one-size-fits-all" approach to people.

Hashem responds a few Pesukim later, stating, "Take Yehoshua bin Nun, a man in whom there is spirit” (ibid. v. 18). On this, Rashi comments, "As you requested." Yehoshua possessed precisely the quality Moshe had asked for, namely the ability to understand each individual and respond according to that person's particular needs.

Of course, Chazal teach that Yehoshua also earned the leadership because he never left Moshe Rabbeinu's side (Bamidbar Rabbah 21:14; Temurah 16a). But, comments Rav Chaim Shmulevitz, the straightforward reading of the Pesukim emphasizes something else, notably this extraordinary quality of understanding in the realm of bein adam l'chaveiro.

The Ramban (Bamidbar 13:4) moreover notes that Yehoshua appears fifth in the list of the meraglim, a list arranged according to greatness. If so, there were individuals greater than him in wisdom. Yet Yehoshua became the leader because he knew how to deal with people. He knew that every Jew requires something different. Some people need encouragement and some need firm direction and it is this ability to recognize and respond to the uniqueness of every individual that defines the quality of a Jewish leader.

Many years later, Klal Yisrael was blessed with another great leader embodied this same quality: Rav Moshe Feinstein zt”l.

In New York's Lower East Side sometime during the 1950s, a woman entered an appliance store and placed a deposit on an item she wished to purchase. The following day she returned. "I've changed my mind," she said. "May I please have my deposit back?" The owner graciously refunded her money. The next day she returned once again. "I'd like my deposit back." The owner was confused. "I already returned it to you yesterday." "No, you didn't," she insisted. An argument followed during which the woman became increasingly emotional and eventually broke down crying.

The dispute was brought before Rav Moshe, and both the store owner and woman presented their claims as Rav Moshe listened patiently. Then, suddenly, the woman reached into her purse, removed two pills, and declared, "If you don't tell him to return my money, I'll swallow these pills and end my life." Without the slightest hesitation, Rav Moshe stood up, walked into the kitchen, returned with a glass of water, placed it before her, and calmly said, "Please, go ahead."

The woman immediately turned pale. She put the pills away, rushed out of the apartment, and the matter was over. Rav Moshe understood exactly who he was dealing with. For that individual, that was the correct response.

There is a second story which contains an equally important lesson. Toward the end of Rav Moshe's life, he was admitted to the hospital shortly before Shabbos. A few hours before candle lighting, the telephone rang, and his son, Rav Dovid, answered.

A woman was calling. "May I please speak to Rabbi Feinstein? I have an important question." Rav Dovid gently explained that his father had just been hospitalized and asked whether the question could wait until after Shabbos. "No," she replied. "It really can't." Thinking it might involve a serious halachic matter, Rabbi Dovid offered, "Perhaps you can tell me the question, and I'll ask my father." The woman asked, "Could you please ask Rabbi Feinstein what time candle lighting is this week?" Rav Dovid was stunned. Then she quietly explained.

"My husband passed away seven months ago, and ever since then, every Erev Shabbos, I've called Rabbi Feinstein to ask what time to light candles." Rav Moshe never told her to buy a calendar and never suggested looking it up herself. He understood that the question was never really about candle-lighting. It was about loneliness. It was about giving comfort to someone who needed to hear a familiar, caring voice before every Shabbos.

That was what she needed. And Rabbi Moshe responded to her needs and not merely to her question. That is the hallmark of true leadership.

Every one of us can strive to acquire this middah of recognizing that every individual is different. And in that merit, we will be one step closer to meriting the rebuilding of the Beis Hamikdash.