Rabbi Benzion Klatzko

Shidduchim: The Professional Edition

This presentation is titled, "Shidduchim: The Professional Edition." Now that's a very strange title. If you're a professional at dating, you're probably not very good at it. It's like saying, "This fellow is an expert on marriage." "Oh really?" "Yes. He's been married four times." That's not exactly the recommendation you're looking for.

The truth is, you've probably heard enough about shidduchim to last a lifetime. At a certain point you're thinking, "Enough with the speeches already! Stop giving me advice; just find me someone!" I understand. If you'd like suggestions, I'm happy to help. But in the following pages, my goal is different.

I want to share a handful of practical ideas in the form of a collection of lessons that life has taught me. I also want to present them simply and practically. But before I tell you what to do, I think it's only fair to tell you my own story.

Baruch Hashem, I've been married for twenty-two years to an extraordinary woman, Shani, née Juravel. I can honestly tell you that I appreciate her more today than I did the day we got married. So let me tell you how we met. It's a little unusual.

I was sixteen years old, learning in yeshiva in Cleveland. At one point I decided to transfer to a yeshiva in New York. I visited several yeshivos before choosing one, and looking back, I can see how Hashem was already arranging everything long before I realized it.

When I arrived, there was one problem. Every bed in the dormitory was already taken. The mashgiach walked me from room to room, hoping someone might have space. Nothing. Finally, we reached the very last room. "There has to be a way," he said. He looked around and finally announced, "If we move this bed over here and shift that dresser over there, I think we can squeeze in one more bed." Most of the boys said, "Sure, let's do it." After all, they already had eight boys in the room and I would become number nine. Nine boys in one bathroom. You can imagine…

There was one fellow, however, who wasn't quite as enthusiastic. Honestly, I understood why. I was the out-of-town kid from Cleveland who had just arrived to make his already crowded room even more crowded. Standing there, I remember thinking, “This doesn't feel particularly welcoming.” But then another thought crossed my mind.

“He's not a bad person. He's just being asked to sacrifice his own comfort for someone he doesn't know.” So I made a decision. I'm going to become this fellow's close friend. I'm going to make sure that one day he'll be happy I ended up in his room. And that’s exactly what happened. We became close. Very close.

And a few years later... I married his sister.

It gets even better.

Later, I made a shidduch between my sister and his brother. So today our two families have two brother-and-sister marriages. We like to keep the mechutanim to a minimum whenever possible.

Now, I have to admit something.  Growing up in Cleveland, I watched enough television to believe that when you meet "the one," violins start playing. You know the scene. The music swells and the angels sing, "Ahhhhh..." I always wanted to remember that moment. The problem was, I never knew whether I was hearing the violins.

One Shabbos my roommate invited me home. He casually mentioned, "By the way, I have five sisters." Now, I was a very proper yeshiva bochur and I didn't talk to girls. But I did think to myself, “Well, statistically speaking, one of them could possibly be my bashert.” The youngest sister walked in. She was three years old and I was sixteen. I decided the age gap was probably too much.

Then another sister walked in. Then another. Nine years old… twelve years old. Finally, the fourteen-year-old walked into the room. There and then, I thought to myself, "Well... maybe." I never had a conversation with her. I simply wished everyone a "Good Shabbos." But at least I could always say I remembered the very first moment I met the woman I would one day marry.

The years passed.

I learned in New York, and then spent time learning in Eretz Yisrael. While I was there, I had the privilege of speaking with Rav Shach zt”l. After asking me about my learning, he asked one simple question. "Where do you hope to live after you're married?" "I'd love to live in Eretz Yisrael," I said. Rav Shach smiled. "Then you should get married young. In America they tend to wait, but in Eretz Yisrael, they don't." I have to admit, I was thrilled. I already wanted to get married. So I called my father and said, "Tatty... Rav Shach says it's time for me to get married." My father laughed. "Okay," he said. "We'll talk."

And that's when the real story began.

Off the Plane and Onto the Date

It was just before Sukkos. I flew from Eretz Yisrael to New York, where I had an overnight stop before continuing on to Cleveland. Since I needed a place to stay, I decided to spend the night with my former roommate's family. On the way, I stopped at Kova Hat Store. I figured, if I'm coming home for shidduchim, I might as well buy myself a chassan's hat. You have to think ahead.

I arrived at the house, luggage in one hand and brand-new hat in the other. My roommate's mother opened the door.

"Benzion! You're back from Eretz Yisrael! What brings you home?" "Actually...” I said, “shidduchim." She looked at me and said, almost as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, "Don't you know we've always had you in mind for our daughter?" I smiled. "I had my suspicions." "So...” she said, “would you like to go out with her now?"

I had literally just landed. I was standing in the doorway with my suitcase and I had nowhere to freshen up. On top of that, and perhaps most significantly, I was nineteen years old. So naturally, I said, "Sure!"

She called upstairs. "Shani! Benzion's back from Eretz Yisrael. Would you like to go out with him?" From upstairs came the reply: "Give me five minutes." Years later she confessed that those five minutes consisted mainly of brushing her hair. That was our first date.

We didn't go to a restaurant. We didn't take a walk. We sat in the Pesach kitchen. Forty-five minutes later, we were essentially planning our future. Where would we live? How many children did we hope to have? The conversation flowed so naturally that, in my mind, it was over. I called my father. "Tatty... guess what?" "What?" he said. "I'm engaged." "No, you're not,” he said immediately. We had a spirited discussion. My mother eventually picked up the extension and said, "Would both of you please calm down?" Then she said something very reasonable. "We trust your judgment, but we're not letting you get engaged until we meet the girl." Fair enough.

A short while later, I returned to New York for another Shabbos together. By the end of that visit, we both knew. As far as we were concerned, we were engaged. In fact, we even took what we called our "engagement picture." I still have it. The only problem was... nobody else knew we were engaged.

My parents invited Shani, who was only seventeen years old, to spend Shabbos with them in Cleveland. Can you imagine the courage it took? She boarded a bus by herself to spend an entire Shabbos with her prospective in-laws... without me being there. For twenty-four hours they had the opportunity to observe everything. Thankfully, they fell in love with her and called me afterward and said, "You picked a winner."

But there was one final obstacle. Her parents wanted to delay. "We're delighted,” they said, “but she's still in twelfth grade. There will be no wedding until she graduates." This meant, of course, that our engagement had to remain a secret.

Now imagine being engaged... and not being allowed to tell anyone. I was in Eretz Yisrael and she was in Boro Park and neither of us could say a word. Knowing this, my Rosh Yeshivah told me, "If everyone knows you're a chassan, you'll spend the whole day thinking about it instead of learning. Keep it quiet." I tried. I really did.

For about five minutes.

One day I was sitting alone in a pizza shop in Yerushalayim when another bachur walked in. I had never met him before. I picked up my slice of pizza, walked over to his table, sat down, and said, "Hi, my name is Benzion Klatzko. What's your name?" He introduced himself. "Listen,” I said, “I don't know you at all. But I have to tell somebody. I'm a chassan." He laughed. "Mazel tov!" he yelled out, heartfully. "Thank you,” I said. “Now please don't tell anyone." He promised.

There was just one small problem. His cousin happened to be a classmate of my kallah. Naturally, he called her and said, "By the way... did you know there's a kallah in your class who's keeping it a secret?" Within days the rumors spread through the entire school. Every girl became a suspect. "Are you the kallah?" "No." "Really? Because you smiled." "No." "You just bought a new dress!" And on it went.

Poor Shani said nothing. She simply smiled and let everyone speculate. Eventually the secret became impossible to contain and my Rosh Yeshivah finally said, "All right, you can officially get engaged." Elated, the boys in yeshiva made a little celebration.

As I was in Eretz Yisrael and she was still in New York, my father called and said, "We're not flying you home just for a vort. But we do want to celebrate. So we're going to make a small vort... even if the chassan isn't there."

My parents did just that. Since I couldn't fly back to Cleveland, they decided they would hold a small vort without me. My future in-laws would come over on Motzei Shabbos, everyone would gather together, and from Eretz Yisrael I would propose to my kallah over the telephone.

This was 1987 and there were no speakerphones. If you wanted everyone in the room to hear a phone call, you actually bought an external speaker, plugged it into the phone jack, and hoped it worked.

There was only one problem. When it was eight o'clock Saturday night in Cleveland... it was two o'clock Sunday morning in Yerushalayim. "What if I sleep through it?" I said to my parents. "Don't,” they replied. There were no cordless phones either. So I spread a blanket on the cold stone floor of the yeshiva and literally slept beside the telephone.

At two o'clock in the morning the phone rang and I picked it up, half asleep. On the other end, I could hear a party. "Okay, everyone's here…” my parents said. “Go ahead! Propose!"

Now, I had all of Shabbos to think of the perfect proposal. A beautiful line which captured something romantic and memorable. I gave it absolutely no thought whatsoever. To this day, I believe I delivered the worst proposal in recorded history.

"Shani,” I said, “are you there?" "Yes…" came the soft reply. "Okay... last chance to back out!" You could hear the room gasp. My wife still reminds me of this.

Finally, I said, "So... will you marry me?" "Yes,” she said, confidently. The next thing I heard was “Mazel tov!" and that was it. I hung up, rolled over on the floor, and went back to sleep while everyone else celebrated in Cleveland.

So if you're wondering why I'm relaying this presentation called "The Professional Edition," let me be perfectly honest. I hardly qualify as a professional. I went on one date and then I married her. Not exactly a complicated system.

But over the years, I've become involved in making shidduchim, and baruch Hashem, I've helped make dozens of shidduchim. I am not a legendary shadchan, but I've had a front-row seat to enough stories to notice certain patterns. And one pattern concerns me deeply. The longer people date, the easier it becomes to develop expectations that quietly sabotage the process. So let me say something that may sound a little controversial.

I'm not fond of the way we sometimes use the word "bashert." Of course every marriage is from Hashem and of course Hashem guides the process. I'm not questioning that for a moment. What concerns me is what the word has come to mean in everyday conversation. Too often, "I don't think this is my bashert" really means, "I'm not feeling it." We've replaced the Hollywood idea of love at first sight with a religious version of exactly the same thing.

Instead of waiting for violins to play, we wait for a mystical feeling. And if it doesn't arrive immediately, we conclude, "This can't be my bashert." But that's not how decisions are meant to be made. Hashem didn't only give us hearts. He also gave us seichel, which is the ability to think, observe and evaluate character. We can ask, “Is this person honest? Are they kind? Do they have integrity? Will they help me become a better person? Can we build a home together?” Those are questions we can actually answer.

Questions like, "Do our neshamos connect?" I don't know. I'm not sure any of us knows how to answer that. But we do know how to recognize a mensch. We do know how to identify kindness, maturity, humility, and emotional health. Those are the qualities that build a marriage. As the Steipler Gaon remarked, a person cannot excuse poor judgment by saying, "Well, it just wasn't my bashert." Hashem expects us to use the seichel He gave us. Faith and wisdom are not opposites. They work together. We trust Hashem to guide the process and we trust the mind He gave us to recognize the right person when they stand before us.

The Ten Faults

Let me share what I think is one of the most practical tools in dating.

The interesting thing is, it doesn't stop helping once you're married. I call it "The Ten Faults Rule." Now, don't take the number literally. The point is simple. Every single person has significant flaws. Every one of us. There are no angels walking around down here. When you're dating, people naturally put their best foot forward, and that's normal. You're seeing someone at their most attentive, most thoughtful and most polished. But as the relationship deepens, you begin to discover the parts that weren't immediately visible. "Oh... I didn't realize he was so disorganized." "I didn't know she was always late." "I didn't realize he could be so sarcastic." "I didn't know she was so stubborn." Don't be shocked. Expect it. Every person has strengths and every person has weaknesses.

Here's the mistake many people make. They meet someone wonderful, discover a few faults, and think, "Maybe I should keep looking." Perhaps. But remember what you're really doing. You're not trading ten faults for perfection.

You're trading one set of faults... for a different set of faults.

My son once heard me teach this idea and immediately said, "But maybe I'll like the next person's faults better." That's a fair point. Maybe you will. But maybe you won't. Every person comes with qualities you'll love and qualities that will challenge you. The question isn't whether someone has flaws. The question is, “Are these flaws I can live with?” If you're waiting for perfection, you'll wait forever.

Having said that, there are certain character traits that deserve extraordinary attention. Years ago, when I served as a campus rabbi, students would often come to talk to me about relationships. A young woman would begin, "Rabbi, there's this fellow I'm dating..." I already knew what was coming. "I really like him, but..." Before she finished, I would ask, "Tell me about just two things." There are two character traits that should immediately put you on high alert: chronic dishonesty and uncontrolled anger.

Are there other important qualities? Of course. A person should be responsible, kind, compassionate and emotionally mature. But dishonesty and uncontrolled anger strike at the very foundation of a relationship.

Trust.

Without trust, a marriage struggles to survive. Imagine someone tells you, "You're going to love the new girl joining your class. She's brilliant, creative, thoughtful, but there's just one thing. She's a bit of a liar." Suddenly everything else becomes difficult to believe.  The same is true with anger. Occasional frustration is part of being human. But a pattern of uncontrolled anger can wound relationships, damage trust, and leave lasting emotional scars.

My older sister once said something that stayed with me. "I could marry almost anyone as long as he doesn't have a temper." There is tremendous wisdom in that statement. So yes, remember the Ten Faults Rule. Everyone has imperfections and don't expect perfection. But also learn to distinguish between ordinary human weaknesses and serious character issues that deserve very careful attention.

That distinction can change the course of a marriage.

I Choose You and You Choose Me

I want to share another tool that changed my perspective.

I was engaged in Eretz Yisrael for almost a year. I had gotten engaged at nineteen and Shani had just turned seventeen. By the time we married, I had turned twenty, and we were married on her eighteenth birthday.

But while I was learning in Eretz Yisrael, something happened. I began to get cold feet. Maybe I had rushed and maybe I had made such a quick decision because I had only dated one girl. Who was I supposed to ask? No one in yeshiva knew her. No one could reassure me and say, "Relax, she's wonderful."

The engagement train had already left the station, and I remember thinking, "What have I done?" I spoke to an older friend, someone much wiser than I was. He listened quietly and then asked me one question.

"Benzion, you're probably thinking that if you hadn't gotten engaged to Shani, you could have found five other girls to marry." I admitted, "Probably." He smiled. "Let me ask you something else. Is Shani a wonderful girl?" "Absolutely," I said. "Do you think she could have found five other boys to marry?" I laughed. "Without a doubt,” I said.

"So here's the calculation,” he went on. “You could have chosen five other girls and she could have chosen five other boys. But she chose you and you chose her. That's marriage."

He didn't say another word. He didn't have to. Something clicked. For years I've carried that lesson with me.

Could I have married someone else? Perhaps. Could she have? Certainly. But marriage isn't built on endlessly wondering who else might have been available. Marriage begins the moment two people say, "Out of everyone else... I choose you and you choose me." Choice becomes commitment, commitment becomes loyalty, and loyalty becomes love. And together, they build a Jewish home.

That's another tool. Don't spend your life wondering about the five people you didn't choose. Build your future with the one you did.

The Five M’s

Now let me share another framework that I think is incredibly practical. I call it the Five M's.

They come from the story of Eliezer's search for Rivkah in Parshas Chayei Sarah, and they provide a helpful way to think about what we're looking for in a spouse.

The Five M's are:

• Middos — Character.

• Mishpachah — Family.

• Moach — Intellect.

• Mar'eh — Appearance.

• Mamon — Financial responsibility and the ability to earn a living.

(Some people jokingly add a sixth "M"—whether she can make meatballs. We'll leave that one out.) Here's the important point.

Every one of us ranks those five qualities differently. For one person, middos comes first; for someone else, family background; and yet someone else may place a greater emphasis on intellect. None of those priorities are inherently right or wrong. The key is to know your own priorities honestly.

Imagine someone puts looks at number five. That doesn't mean that if someone puts mar'eh, appearance, at number one, they're superficial. Not at all. Some people simply know themselves and will tell you, "If I compromise on this, I'm not going to be happy." That's an honest answer. What's interesting, though, is that I've done this exercise with hundreds of people and when I ask young women to rank the Five M's, looks is almost never number one.

I once asked this around a room and one participant raised his hand. "Middos first," they said. Excellent choice. Then someone asked, "What about learning?" “I'd include that under middos and moach,” I responded. “Torah should shape both a person's character and the way they think.”

Another participant surprised me. "Family is second." Interesting. “Why?” I asked. "My family is incredibly important to me,” he said. “They're a huge part of who I am, and I want someone who values family the way I do." That's a very thoughtful answer.

Someone else pointed out that when you marry a person, you also marry a family. Not entirely, of course. Wonderful people sometimes come from very difficult homes, and difficult people sometimes come from wonderful homes. But family culture matters. It shapes expectations, communication, values, and relationships.

Then I noticed something else. Almost nobody ranked mamon, financial potential, very highly. I laughed. "So no one's worried about parnassah?" One fellow answered, "With today's economy, almost everyone is struggling anyway." Fair enough.

The point of the exercise isn't to tell you what your order should be. The point is to know your own priorities honestly, because if you don't know what matters most to you, you'll have a very difficult time recognizing the right person when they come along. So know your values, know your priorities, and make sure you're choosing a spouse based on the things that will matter twenty years into marriage and not just twenty minutes into a date.

Not Your Biography

Let me expand on the second "M,” that of Mishpachah, family.

I was once involved in a discussion about a young man who was dating a wonderful girl. During the process, someone shared that her parents had interfered significantly in the marriages of two older siblings. From everything I understood, the information appeared to be accurate. The immediate reaction around the table was, "End the shidduch." My response was different.

"Wait a second," I said.  “Don't judge the daughter before you know her. Find out who she is.” Yes, perhaps her parents behaved poorly, but has she adopted those patterns or has she risen above them? Sometimes difficult family experiences produce tremendous emotional maturity and sometimes they produce the opposite. You don't know until you know the person. That's why middos always comes before mishpachah.

Now let's understand where family fits into the Torah's perspective.

In Parshas Chayei Sarah, Avraham instructs Eliezer, "Do not take a wife for Yitzchak from the daughters of Canaan. Go instead to my family” (Bereishis 24:3-4). At first glance, that seems to suggest that family background is everything. But then we look at Avraham's own relatives. Besuel attempted to poison Eliezer and Lavan's first instinct was to search Eliezer for gold and wealth. This was hardly a perfect family.

So why did Avraham send Eliezer there? The answer, I believe, is that family matters, but it is not the whole story. It takes a village to raise a child. The culture surrounding a person—the values, the community, the teachers, the schools, the extended family—all help shape who that person becomes. Avraham wanted Yitzchak to marry someone who had grown up within a world that still carried the values of Avraham's home, even if individual family members had serious flaws. That distinction is incredibly important today.

Many wonderful young men and women worry that they'll be judged because of their parents. "My parents are divorced." "There was dysfunction in my home." "My family struggled." "They'll never look past my last name."

To those people I want to say, “Your parents are not your biography.”

You did not choose the home into which you were born and you are not responsible for the mistakes of previous generations. Perhaps you were blessed with extraordinary teachers. Perhaps a rebbe, a morah, a mentor, a rebbetzin, a youth leader, or a close friend became the person who helped shape your character. Those influences matter. You are the product of far more than your parents alone.

In many yeshivos today, boys spend years away from home. Who is helping raise them? Their rebbeim, their roshei yeshiva, their friends and their environment. It truly takes a village.

So yes, family is important and it tells part of the story. But it never tells the whole story. The question is not, "Where did this person come from?" The more important question is, "Who has this person become?" Ultimately, that is the person you are marrying.

My own children learned away from home and every few weeks they came back for Shabbos, and we enjoyed the nachas of watching them grow. But who helped raise them? Their village. So when someone asks, "How important is family?" my answer is, “Very important. But it isn't everything.” Exactly what makes a "good family" is something each person must evaluate according to their own values.

If you ask me to choose between frumkeit (religiosity) and hashkafa (world outlook) and menschlichkeit and middos, the answer is simple. Choose middos. If someone shares your Torah values, possesses genuinely good character, and is committed to building a Torah home, those qualities should never be overshadowed by superficial labels.

Working in kiruv, I've had the privilege of meeting many baalei teshuvah. Some of the finest people I know are baalei teshuvah. They chose Torah and they sacrificed for Torah. They built themselves with extraordinary determination.

Years ago, some people hesitated to date a baal teshuvah. Today, thankfully, much of that stigma has disappeared, and rightly so. A person is not measured by where they began; they’re measured by who they have become. Many baalei teshuvah bring enormous enthusiasm, gratitude and passion into their avodas Hashem. Of course, every individual should be evaluated as an individual. The same is true for someone who grew up frum. Some become remarkable Torah personalities, while others struggle. Background alone tells you very little. Character tells you much more.

A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Let me return to one final point about bashert.

One of the great dangers in dating is creating what psychologists call a self-fulfilling prophecy. We build an imaginary picture of "the one." He has to be this and she has to be that. He'll make me feel a certain way and she'll fit every expectation I've imagined. Then, without realizing it, we reject anyone who doesn't fit the picture we've created. Sometimes we become so committed to our expectations that we stop seeing the person standing in front of us.

There is a fascinating illustration of this in the Torah.

Chazal tell us that Leah heard people saying that she was destined to marry Eisav (Bereishis Rabbah 70:16; Bava Basra 123a). The thought distressed her so deeply that she cried continually. The Torah describes, "Einei Leah rakos—The eyes of Leah were softened by tears” (Bereishis 29:17). Whether understood literally or metaphorically, the message is instructive. An expectation shaped her emotions, and her emotions shaped the way she appeared. A prediction began changing reality.

That is the danger of expectations. If we become convinced that our bashert must fit a script we've already written, we risk overlooking the very person Hashem has placed before us. Dating requires both faith and openness. Trust that Hashem is guiding the process, but don't let an imaginary picture blind you to a real person. Sometimes the greatest blessing arrives looking very different from what we expected, and only those who remain open enough to truly see will recognize it when it comes.

A Beautiful Marriage… With Many

Let me share another idea that has become increasingly important in today's world.

The truth is, there are many people with whom you could build a beautiful marriage. Not one. Many.

Every marriage shapes us differently. Choose one person, and your life takes one path. Choose another wonderful person, and your life takes a different path. Neither path is necessarily wrong. They're simply different. The Ba'alei Kabbalah discuss the possibility that there can be more than one person who is compatible with an individual under different circumstances.

My point here is simple.

There are many people with whom you could build a successful, loving Torah home. Some relationships will feel more natural and others may require more growth. Some spouses will be an ezer kenegdo in the fullest sense by challenging you, stretching you and helping you become someone greater. Marriage isn't about finding perfection. It is about finding someone with whom you can build a future.

Categories, Categories, Categories

That brings me to something a little controversial. One of the greatest blessings, and one of the greatest challenges, of our generation is the rise of online shidduch platforms. They've helped countless people get married, baruch Hashem. I know people who found their spouse through them and they're wonderful tools. But every tool has to be used wisely.

Here's what concerns me; the questionnaires, page after page.

 Yeshivish, Modern Yeshivish, Out-of-town, Learns full-time, Works, Internet, No internet, Smartphone, No smartphone, Music, Movies, Hashkafah, Community. Style. There is one filter after another. Before long, we begin to believe that if we can just answer enough questions, the computer will find our bashert.

But life isn't an algorithm. Think about how small the dating pool already is. Start with the entire world and now limit it to Jews. Now narrow it to Torah-observant Jews… now to your age range… now to your gender… now to people in roughly the same stage of life. The circle has already become remarkably small. And then we begin adding dozens of additional filters. By the time we're finished, we've narrowed the possibilities to almost no one.

Sometimes we've ruled out people we've never even met, and all because they didn't fit a category. The danger is that we begin looking for labels instead of looking for people. We ask, "Is he exactly my type?" instead of, "Is he a mensch?" We ask, "Does she fit every box on my list?" instead of, "Can we build a beautiful life together?"

Categories have their place. Standards matter and hashkafah matters, as do shared values. But no questionnaire can measure humility, no checklist can measure kindness, and no algorithm can detect loyalty. No database can tell you whether two people will encourage one another to become better Jews. Those are discovered only through getting to know another human being.

So use the tools, but don't become imprisoned by them, because sometimes the person who doesn't fit every box may be exactly the person with whom you can build an extraordinary life.

We can become almost comical in the way we classify people. "Out of town." "What does that mean?" "Chicago?" "Well... maybe." "Denver?" "No, that's different." "What about Milwaukee?" "Milwaukee's fine." "Madison?" "No." "But it's only a couple of hours away." "Still no." "What about Los Angeles?" "Well... that's complicated."  "What about New Jersey?" "Well... New Jersey is almost New York..." Before long, we've created a map so complicated that nobody can figure out where anybody belongs. We laugh, but this is exactly what happens. We categorize and subdivide and create increasingly narrow boxes until almost nobody qualifies.

On my website, Shabbat.com, we added a shidduchim feature. One thing I insisted on was making the questionnaire incredibly short. You can complete it in well under a minute. Why? Because I don't believe that finding a spouse should feel like applying for a government security clearance. I don't even ask for an exact height.

Think about what happens. She's looking for someone who's 5'11". He's 5'9". Next. Really? As mentioned, we've already narrowed the Jewish world dramatically. Then we narrow it again by age, then by hashkafah, then by location, then by schooling, then by career plans, then by technology, and then by a dozen other categories. By the end, we've filtered out almost everyone before we've met a single person. It's reached the point where I sometimes suggest a shidduch and hear, "Oh, I already heard of him." Or, "I turned him down." Or, "My friend dated him." How is that possible? There are millions of Jews in the world. How have we all managed to hear about everyone? Because we've sliced the pie so thin that we're all looking at the same tiny group of people.

Here's the reality. Many successful marriages are built between people who are not identical. They grow together, influence one another and build something neither could have built alone.

I'll give you an example from my own family.

The Marriage That Would Have Never Been

My grandfather was a classic German Yekke. Everything about him reflected that tradition. His grandfather had been a close disciple of Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch zt”l. On the other side, my grandmother was the granddaughter of the Belzer Rebbe. Now imagine entering those two profiles into a modern shidduch website.

Chassidish? "No." German Yekke? "Yes." Match rejected. The computer would have dismissed the shidduch before anyone had the opportunity to meet. And yet, Hashem had a different plan.

The point isn't that categories don't matter. They do. But we must be careful not to confuse categories with compatibility. Two people can come from different backgrounds and build a marriage. Sometimes Hashem's greatest shidduchim don't fit neatly into the boxes we've created. That's why our job is to use wisdom without allowing labels to become walls.

If we would go one generation further, my mother was the daughter of that Yekke Rav and the granddaughter of the Belzer dynasty. Who was she introduced to? A young medical student who had become Shomer Shabbos through his own spiritual journey and was active in Hillel.

Again, think about the profile. One side: generations of rabbanim and yichus. The other: a baal teshuva in medical school. How many shadchanim would have suggested that match? How many websites would have? Probably none. And yet, that's my father. Without that shidduch, I don't exist and my children don't exist.

My sister has a similar story. She was teaching in a school when an elderly Persian security guard kept telling her, "Devorah, you have to meet my nephew." Every day. "Meet my nephew." She politely declined. Again and again.

Finally she agreed simply to stop him from asking. After the first date she came home smiling. "He's a wonderful person, but we're completely different." She grew up in Cleveland and he grew up in Shiraz. Different cultures and different backgrounds. Different everything. She assumed that was the end of the story.

The next day the guard saw her again. "So... second date?" She agreed. Then another. Then another. Today they're married, have a beautiful family, and he serves as a rabbi through the Orthodox Union. Again, that marriage never would have happened if someone had only looked at categories.

This is my concern. We slice the pie thinner and thinner, then thinner still, until eventually we say, "There's nobody left." Perhaps we've made the search so narrow that we've unintentionally left Hashem out of the process. We hear a suggestion and, before we've even met the person, we wave it away. "Not my type." "Wrong background." "Wrong profession." "Not what I'm looking for."

Maybe. But maybe not. What if he's a tremendous mensch? What if she'll become an incredible wife and mother? What if the very quality you're looking for isn't captured by any category?

The Torah itself tells such a story.

Yitzchak married Rivkah, the daughter of Besuel and the sister of Lavan. On paper, that family didn't exactly look ideal. And yet Hashem knew something that no resume could reveal. That is why we must leave room for Hashem in the process. Don’t reject people because they don't fit every label you've imagined. Sometimes the greatest shidduch is the one you never would have designed yourself.

What To Consider

I often notice mamon, financial stability, ranked toward the bottom of people’s list. I’m happy to hear that. Sometimes I meet a young woman in her early twenties who says, "I only want someone who's already financially established." I understand the desire for security, but let's be realistic. How many twenty-five-year-olds are completely established? Most people are still building their careers. Many, in fact, change jobs several times before finding the right path and very few people have everything figured out in their twenties.

Don't look only at where someone is today. Look at where they're headed. Look at their work ethic, responsibility, ambition and integrity. A person's future is often far more important than their current paycheck. You're not marrying a finished product. You're choosing someone with whom you're going to build a life. If a person has strong character and they're hardworking, give them a chance and give yourself a chance.

If you want someone who has already built an entire career, perhaps date someone who's forty. But if you're dating someone in their twenties, don't expect them to have already reached the destination. The Torah doesn't ask us to look for a finished product. It asks us to look for potential.

Appearance also matters. Chazal teach that a man cannot marry a woman until he sees her, lest it eventually interfere with the mitzvah of "Ve'ahavta l'rei'acha kamocha” (Kiddushin 41a). A person should not marry someone with whom he feels no attraction.

But there's another principle that is equally important.

When you're dating someone, date the person who is actually sitting across from you and not the person you hope they'll become. I've seen people say, "He's a wonderful person... once I fix a few things." Or, "She'll change after we're married." "He'll stop doing this." "She'll grow out of that."

Maybe. But maybe not.

Go into marriage assuming that this person will remain exactly as they are today. If they continue to grow, and, please G-d they should, that's a beautiful blessing. But don't build a marriage on a renovation project. Build it on reality. People certainly can change and marriage should inspire growth. But healthy marriages begin with acceptance, not with a blueprint for redesigning the other person. Besides, people generally don't enjoy being changed. They enjoy being loved. Ironically, genuine acceptance often creates the safest environment for real growth.

Earlier I mentioned that uncontrolled anger is one of the great warning signs in a relationship. Here's why.

When a couple is dating, everything feels exciting. They're patient with one another, forgiving, understanding and small irritations hardly matter. But every marriage eventually reaches a plateau. That's normal. The excitement settles into everyday life and bills need to be paid, children need to be raised and schedules become busy. Real life begins. And that's when true character emerges.

If a relationship is built only on excitement, it will struggle. If it's built on middos, respect, patience, and kindness, it has the foundation to last a lifetime. A successful marriage isn't sustained by the feelings that begin it. It is sustained by the character of the two people who build it together.

Infinitely More Valuable

I'd like to end with one final story.

Many years ago, shortly after my wife and I got married, we were living in Boro Park. My father-in-law had generously lent us his old brown station wagon. It was dependable and practical.

But it was also one of the ugliest cars ever built.

One day I told my wife, "I think it's time for an upgrade." I had seen an advertisement for a police and bank repossession auction in Queens. The promise was irresistible: luxury cars selling for a fraction of their value. In my mind, I was already driving home in a Lexus. Reality had not yet entered the conversation. At the time I was learning in kollel and our entire monthly income was one thousand dollars. After months of careful saving, we had managed to put away exactly one thousand dollars. The auction required a twenty-five percent deposit.

I confidently announced, "We have a thousand dollars. That means we can buy a four-thousand-dollar car. Hashem will help us find the other three thousand." My wife smiled. "Okay,” she said. So off we went.

Before the auction began, people wandered through the lot looking at the cars. Every car looked perfect to me. A sports car? Absolutely. A custom van? Perfect for family trips. I could picture myself driving every single one. Then my wife asked, "Where did you put the money?" "In my pocket," I said. She looked concerned. "You should hide it," she encouraged. "I already did,” I said. I proudly explained my security system. I had rolled the thousand dollars into a tight bundle and buried it at the bottom of my deep pocket. Then I stuffed the pocket with crumpled paper towels. "If a pickpocket reaches in," I explained calmly, "all he'll find are paper towels. By the time he reaches the money, I'll catch him."

She looked at me and said, "Put it in your shoe." “My shoe?” I said. I wasn’t wanting to do that. “Please,” my wife said. "It'll be safer.” "I’m not walking around with a thousand dollars in my shoe” was all I replied. So she let it go.

The auction started. I stood in the front row, excited. Five minutes later, someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Excuse me... I think someone just reached into your pocket." My stomach dropped as I reached into my pocket.

Paper towels… more paper towels… and more paper towels. No money.

Five minutes. One thousand dollars. Gone. A month's income had disappeared in an instant.

I looked at my wife and quietly said, "We have to go home."

On the drive back to Boro Park, I braced myself. After all, she had warned me. She had been right and I had been stubborn. I fully expected the words, "I told you so." Instead, she took a deep breath and said, "Don't feel bad. It's from Hashem. Anyone can make a mistake." The entire ride home, she tried to comfort me.

I remember sitting on the edge of our bed when we got home. I looked at her and said, "Shani, what you did today... I will never forget. You had every right to be angry. You had every right to tell me, 'I warned you.' Instead, you chose to be kind and supportive. I want you to know something. I will always be there for you just the same. You can always count on me."

That day taught me something no dating seminar ever could. When you're dating, everyone is kind and everyone is patient. Everyone is on their best behavior. The real question is: who is this person when life goes wrong? Who are they when they're disappointed? Who are they when they're hurt? Who are they when they have every right to say, "I told you so"? Because that's the person you're marrying. And that's why, more than anything else, I believe middos matter. Looks change and money comes and goes. But a heart filled with kindness can build a marriage that lasts a lifetime. Love isn't finding someone who never makes mistakes. Love is learning which mistakes you're willing to let slide.

Years passed. I secretly hoped that one day I'd have the opportunity to repay that act of kindness. Eventually, the opportunity came.

My youngest sister was getting married in Cleveland and I decided I wanted a new suit. Not just any suit. The suit. I searched from store to store until, finally, there it was. Exactly what I had imagined. Perfect. Until I looked at the price tag. It cost far more than I had planned to spend. I stood there for a long time... and then bought it.

Of course, buying the suit meant buying the shirt, then the tie, then the shoes, and then the alterations. By the time everything was finished, I had invested a week's worth of time, and far more money than I cared to admit.

The day before the wedding, my wife called. "When you come home from kollel, don't settle in. I've packed everything. Let's leave for Cleveland immediately." “Wonderful,” I said. I came home, we loaded the children into the van, and we drove through the night. After what felt like a hundred restroom stops, we finally arrived. A few hours later, my father called. "Everyone needs to be at the hall in one hour for family pictures." Perfect.

I took my shower. And then I said, "Shani, could I trouble you for my new suit?" She opened the suitcase. She looked once and then she looked twice. Then she ran to the van and came back. She opened every suitcase again.

Finally, she looked at me and quietly said, "I don't know how to tell you this... I left your suit in New York." For a split second, everything inside me wanted to react. Then, almost immediately, I remembered Queens.

The auction. The thousand dollars. Her kindness. This was my moment.

I smiled. "It's okay… Don't feel bad. I drove here in another suit; I'll wear that one." And I meant it. I walked outside feeling surprisingly peaceful. Then I returned to the room to get changed. The bedroom door was slightly open.

Inside, my wife had gathered our children around her. I stopped. She didn't know I was listening.

She said, "Kinderlach... I want to tell you something about your father. Today is his sister's wedding and he spent so much time looking for the perfect suit and spent a great deal of money on it. He trusted me to pack it, but I forgot. Do you know what many people would have done? They would have become angry, yelled and made me feel terrible.

“But not your father. He never raised his voice. He only wanted me to feel better." Then she said, "Come here. I want to give each of you a beracha." One by one, she placed her hands on each child's head and whispered the words, "May you grow up to be like your father."

I stood outside the door with tears in my eyes.

The expensive suit didn't matter anymore. I already had something infinitely more valuable. I had a marriage.

We don't love people because they're perfect. We love people because, when imperfection appears, we choose kindness over judgment. Marriage isn't finding someone without faults. It's finding someone whose humanity you'll embrace and who will embrace yours.

So be open. Be open to people, be open to suggestions, be open to surprises. And above all, be open to the possibility that Hashem's plan may be even more beautiful than the one you've imagined.

May Hashem help every one of us find the person with whom we build a bayis ne'eman b'Yisrael.