Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

Getting Up When You’re Down

The Zohar teaches that thieves pursue wealthy people, not paupers. A thief sees a poor man walking down the street and leaves him alone. There is nothing there for him to take.

In line with this, the Baal Shem Tov explains the Pasuk, recited as part of L’Dovid Hashem Ori: “Even when entire camps rise against me, my heart will not be afraid. In this itself I place my trust” (Tehillim 27:3).

The Baal Shem Tov explains that when we encounter obstacles precisely as we are trying to move forward, we should not necessarily see them as evidence that we are on the wrong road. Sometimes they are evidence that we are on the right road. The very fact that something is fighting so hard to stop us may mean that what we are doing matters. The yetzer hara attacks the person who has something valuable, who is doing something right. He leaves alone the people who are doing what is wrong.

And yet, nevertheless, many of us tell ourselves the following. “After everything I have done, real teshuvah is no longer possible for me. I’ll daven and I’ll keep what I have to keep. I’ll go through the motions. But actually come back? Actually repair what I have done? That is no longer for someone like me.”

A young person once came into my study and sat down. “I’m finished,” the person said. “What do you mean, finished?” I asked. Someone had told this individual that because of what had happened in the past, there was no longer any Olam Haba awaiting them. And the conclusion was devastating: “If I no longer have Olam Haba, I might as well at least enjoy Olam Ha’Zeh.”

I told him, “First of all, there is no human being in this world who can make such a declaration about another Jew. No one can simply decide who has Olam Haba and who does not. But more importantly, our entire Torah tells us otherwise. Tanach and Shas are filled with people who fell terribly low and nevertheless found their way back. No matter how far a person has traveled, the door of teshuvah remains open.”

HaKadosh Baruch Hu Himself tells us through Yechezkel HaNavi: “As I live,” says Hashem, “I do not desire the death of the wicked one, but rather that he return from his way and live. Return, return from your evil ways. Why should you die, House of Israel?” (Yechezkel 33:11).

Even the person who has fallen again and again, even someone who has corrupted his path and believes he has traveled beyond the point of return, Hashem says, “I do not want you to be lost. I want you to come back. I want you to live.”

Rav Dovid Kronglas zt”l, the legendary Mashgiach of Ner Yisrael, noted that of every mitzvah mentioned in the Torah—even the greatest and most demanding mitzvos—there is nothing that brings Hashem the same nachas ruach as teshuvah. Even vis-à-vis Talmud Torah, which Chazal tell us is equivalent to all the other mitzvos (Peah 1:1) and is extraordinarily precious in the eyes of Hashem, there is something unique about the joy Hashem has when a Jew returns to Him. Hashem waits for it and longs for it.

And this is not merely the teshuvah of ordinary people. Rav Kronglas speaks specifically about the teshuvah of resha’im, of people who have traveled far away. Hashem longs and waits for their return. Throughout the words of the Nevi’im, Hashem pleads again and again with Klal Yisrael: “Shuvu eilai—Come back to Me” (Malachi 3:7).

So what could I tell the young person sitting in front of me who had been told that there was no longer any Olam Haba waiting for them? I said as follows.

“I promise you that you have a path back. If you want me to write it down on a piece of paper, I’ll write it down. If you want me to sign it and seal it, I will do that. If you need a beis din, we’ll make a beis din. But I want you to understand: you are not finished.” The person looked at me skeptically. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” “No,” I said. “I’m giving you my word.”

The young man broke down crying. We continued speaking until suddenly there was a knock at the door. A relative was standing there. “Rabbi, it’s almost time for Shabbos. You have to stop.” I told the relative, “If you hadn’t knocked, I would have continued. But now that you have reminded me how late it is, we have to stop.” Then I turned to the young man. “I want to see you immediately after Shabbos.”

He returned on Motzei Shabbos.

I cannot describe to you what happened afterward. A precious neshama found the courage to return and ultimately did teshuvah sheleimah. A person must never conclude, I have gone too far. There is no such thing as being beyond Hashem's reach. Whatever a person has done, whatever needs to be repaired, whatever tikkunim need to be made, there is a path of return.

The Struggles We Carry

But there is another area in which people can begin to lose hope.

Life can be extraordinarily difficult. There are people carrying challenges that others never see. Parents today confront situations previous generations could scarcely have imagined. Families struggle, children struggle, singles struggle, and people can spend years waiting for something to change, wondering how much longer they can continue.

Someone called me earlier today about a heartbreaking situation. Their children are no longer in contact with them. I know these parents. They are good people. Their children do not call or invite them to their simchas, and the grandparents barely hear from the grandchildren. What do you tell parents like that?

A parent gives their soul for a child, they stay awake when the child is sick, and they cry when the child comes home from school and says someone hurt them. They would give anything for that child. And then, years later, the child turns away.

That is a nisayon; a terribly painful nisayon. How does a parent keep from collapsing under that weight?

Or consider the person waiting year after year for a shidduch.

A mother once came to me with her daughter and said, “Rabbi, I would be happy with just one yes. Just once. Give my daughter one opportunity.” “How long have you been waiting?” I asked. “Six years,” she said. Six years of suggestions that go nowhere. Six years of hearing no. Six years of asking, “Hashem Yisbarach, please send the right person.” How does someone maintain equilibrium through that? How do you preserve your simchas hachaim when the answer you are waiting for does not come?

Or think about parents struggling with a child in chinuch. The child comes home in the middle of the day. “You’re home early. Did yeshivah finish early today?” “No. I left.” And tomorrow morning begins another negotiation. “What will it take for you to go to yeshivah today? I’ll drive you. I’ll get you pizza. I’ll take you wherever you need to go. Just please, go.” And the parent lies awake wondering, “What is going to become of my child?”

But we also have to understand the child. Do we appreciate the nisyonos facing a young boy or girl today? A boy sits in a shiur while the rebbe explains a difficult Rav Chaim or Rabbi Akiva Eiger. The boys around him seem to understand. He does not. Maybe the material simply does not come easily to him, maybe the pace is too fast, or maybe he has been confused for so long that he no longer knows where to begin asking questions. And every day he sits there thinking: everyone understands except me.

A girl can experience the same thing in her classroom. She looks around and believes everyone else is succeeding while she alone is struggling. We have to see that child. We have to recognize that behind behavior that frustrates us there may be discouragement, embarrassment, loneliness, or the quiet conviction that I simply cannot succeed. Every person carries a battle.

The parent has a battle. The child has a battle. The single waiting for a shidduch has a battle. The person trying to do teshuvah has a battle. And perhaps one of the most important things we can give another human being is the conviction that their present struggle is not the end of their story.

The child who is struggling today is not necessarily the child who will struggle forever. The person waiting today will not necessarily wait forever. The relationship that is broken today may not remain broken forever. And the Jew who has fallen, no matter how far, must never believe that he or she cannot come home.

As long as there is life, there is possibility. As long as there is a neshama, there is hope. And as long as Hashem is calling “Shuvu Eilai,” there is always a way back.

Fall and Rise

You can never know what can happen when a person maintains simcha and refuses to surrender to discouragement.

There were Gedolei Yisrael who, when they were young, were not regarded as exceptional learners. Had they allowed other people's expectations to define them, who knows what would have become of them? Instead, they continued and they grew. They went far beyond what anyone had imagined possible.

The same is true in shidduchim. I once had a rather unusual meeting. Two parents called me and said, “Rabbi, we need to come speak to you. It's about a shidduch.” I knew them casually, and they came into my study and sat down. “A shidduch has been suggested for our daughter,” they began, “but it is completely out of our league.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “They're on an entirely different level,” they explained. “Financially and socially, our families are worlds apart. This simply isn't for us. We want to turn it down.”

There was only one complication. Their daughter had heard about the suggestion. And she said, “Why shouldn't I be given a chance?” The parents explained their concern. “Rabbi, the last thing we need is another no. We already have enough no's. Why should she go out, get her hopes up, and then be rejected? Maybe they'll go out once and the other family will realize that we're not on their level. Why put her through that?” I looked at them and said, “I have always had respect for you. But after tonight, I have even greater respect for you.” They looked confused. “Why? Because I never realized that you were so much like Hashem.” They stared at me.

I continued. “Hashem is mezaveg zivugim. Hashem knows which neshama belongs with which neshama. Hashem knows who should meet, who should marry, when the answer should be yes and when it should be no. And apparently, you know too!” They understood the point. “So, Rabbi, you're saying we should let her go out?” “No,” I said. “I'm saying something more. Who are we to prevent it? If it is an appropriate shidduch and both sides are interested, why should we decide in advance what Hashem can and cannot do?”

They left my office shaking their heads. I could only imagine the conversation taking place as they walked down the driveway. But they listened. They allowed their daughter to go out. And then something remarkable happened.

The shidduch progressed with almost unbelievable smoothness. One date. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The parents could hardly believe it. They kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did. Another date—and they were ready to become engaged.

The couple got engaged, and the family invited me to the vort. It was only a few blocks away, and although I barely knew them, I felt invested in this shidduch. After all, Hashem is mezaveg zivugim. I wanted to be there.

At the vort, the chassan's father walked over to me. “I hear we owe you shadchanus.” I smiled.

There is a Pasuk in Michah (7:8): “ Ki nafalti, kamti. Ki eshev bachoshech, Hashem or li—Though I have fallen, I will rise. Though I sit in darkness, Hashem is my light.”

A person may fall once. Or ten times. Or a hundred times. Kamti. You can get up. It does not matter how many times you failed the test. It does not matter how many no's you received in shidduchim. It does not matter how many times payday arrived and there still was not enough money to cover the bills. It does not matter how many mornings you woke up wondering, “How am I going to face this again? How am I going to deal with my child, my family, my responsibilities, my struggles? How much longer can I do this?” Never conclude that because yesterday ended a certain way, tomorrow must end the same way.

The Borei Olam can change a person's circumstances in a moment. One phone call can change a shidduch. One opportunity can change a career. One sincere act of teshuvah can change a life.

We make a terrible mistake when we take the disappointments of our past and turn them into predictions about our future. A history of no does not mean the next answer cannot be yes.

We simply do not know what Hashem has waiting around the corner. So ki nafalti, kamti. I may have fallen, but I will rise. Ki eshev bachoshech, Hashem or li. Even when I cannot yet see the way forward, Hashem can illuminate a path that, moments earlier, I did not even know existed. Never underestimate how quickly the Borei Olam can change a person's life. And never allow yesterday's disappointment to convince you that tomorrow's yes cannot come.

Strike the Stones

I would like to quote an extraordinary teaching from Likutei Moharan.

After everything Klal Yisrael has endured since the tragedy of October 7th on Simchas Torah, I found myself thinking deeply about the meaning of this day. I even wrote a kinah a few years ago, reflecting on some of the pain and challenges we have experienced. Perhaps I wrote it primarily for myself. But when I read it, strangely enough, I find chizuk in it.

When a tzarah enters a person's life, we have a choice. We can simply stare at the darkness or we can ask: What can I do with this darkness? Consider Adam HaRishon. He had lived in Gan Eden. We cannot begin to imagine what Hashem had prepared there for humanity. And then Adam sinned and was expelled.

Imagine that moment. We know what it feels like for a child to be sent out of a classroom. The embarrassment of walking down the hallway, wondering who saw, worrying that his parents will find out. But Adam HaRishon was not expelled from a classroom. He was expelled from Gan Eden. The world as he knew it had disappeared.

Chazal (Pesachim 54a) tell us that when darkness descended upon Adam HaRishon, he encountered something he had never experienced before. He took two stones and struck them together until fire emerged.

Think about the symbolism. Adam encountered darkness, and from the stones in front of him, he created light. Sometimes life places rocks in our path. The question is: what will we do with those rocks? We can stumble over them, we can resent them and we can spend our lives asking why they were placed there. Or we can pick them up, strike them together, and discover that perhaps even these stones contain the possibility of light.

Rebbe Nachman gives a remarkable mashal.

Imagine Simchas Torah when everyone is dancing and the room is alive with singing and joy. And then you notice one person standing outside the circle. He is watching everyone else dance, but he is not participating. His face is downcast and he does not look particularly happy. What do you do? You walk over. “Reb Yid, come dance!” “No, no. I'm fine,” he says. He begins backing away, perhaps he even looks for somewhere to hide. But you take him by the hand. “Come!” you say. “You're dancing with us.”

And you pull him into the circle. At first he barely moves. Then, little by little, something happens. His feet begin following the rhythm and he starts moving with everyone else. A few moments later, he is dancing. And eventually, he is smiling.

Rebbe Nachman says that the same dynamic takes place inside ourselves. Within a person there can be a circle of simcha, and standing outside that circle are sadness, anxiety, disappointment and despair.

What should we do? Bring them into the dance. Do not surrender the entire inner world to the sadness. Take the gloom, the discouragement, the heaviness and pull them, with all your strength, toward simchah. Sometimes you have to do it forcefully.

“No, I am not remaining here,” you tell yourself. Get up. Sing something. Dance. Call someone who lifts you. Open your favorite Gemara. Learn the sugya you love. Take out a Navi, a sefer of mussar, or something else that awakens your neshama. Do something that brings you legitimate pleasure. Rav Avigdor Miller would even speak about enjoying a piece of chocolate cake. Perhaps vanilla works too, but he said chocolate!

The point is not to pretend that the sadness does not exist. The point is to refuse to let sadness have the final word.

Yeshayah HaNavi describes the ultimate redemption: “Sason v'simchah yasigu, v'nasu yagon va'anachah—They will attain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing will flee” (Yeshaya 35:10).

What a magnificent description. Sason v'simchah yasigu—joy is something we must sometimes pursue. We cannot always sit and wait for happiness to arrive. Sometimes we have to get up and go after it. Challenge the darkness. Change your surroundings. Change what you are doing. Take the part of yourself standing outside the circle and pull it back into the dance. Because we have no idea what strength Hashem has placed inside us.

Very often, it is specifically at our lowest moments that we discover capacities we never knew we possessed. That is yeridah l'tzorech aliyah—a descent that becomes the beginning of an ascent. Adam HaRishon encountered darkness and found two stones. He could not return to the world he had lost. But he could take what was lying in front of him and create a new light.

On Tishah B’Av itself, we sit on the floor and we mourn. We do not deny the destruction or rush past the pain. But we also know that Tishah B’Av will not always remain a day of mourning. The darkness itself will ultimately be transformed. And that is the challenge in our own lives as well:

When life gives you darkness, search for the stones from which you can make light.

The Next Page

Sometimes a person goes down.

Consider Yosef HaTzaddik. Look at the trajectory of his life. As a young man, he has extraordinary dreams of greatness and dreams that suggest an astonishing future lies ahead of him. But then everything seems to move in precisely the opposite direction. His brothers turn against him, and eventually, they decide to kill him. Yosef realizes what is happening. Chazal describe him pleading with his brothers for mercy (see Bereishis 42:21). Imagine Yosef HaTzaddik going from one brother to the next, “Please… Have rachmanus on me.”

Instead, they throw him into a pit and then they sell him to Orchas Yishmaelim, a caravan of Yishmaelim. Yosef HaTzaddik, a young man raised in the home of Yaakov Avinu, is torn away from everything he knows and transported to Mitzrayim among people with whom he shares nothing.

Eventually he arrives in the house of Potiphar. And there, once again, disaster strikes. He withstands an enormous nisayon, does precisely what is right, and what is his reward?

Prison.

Think about his life from Yosef's perspective. The dreams promised greatness. Reality delivered a pit, then slavery, then temptation, then false accusation and finally prison. At almost every stage, Yosef could have looked at his life and said, “This is a disaster. Everything is going wrong.”

But we know something Yosef could not yet see. We know the next chapter. What was Yosef HaTzaddik ultimately destined to become?

Mishneh lamelech. The second most powerful man in Egypt.

The young man thrown helplessly into a pit would eventually control the food supply of an empire. The slave would become a ruler, the prisoner would stand before Pharaoh, and ultimately, Yosef would be placed in precisely the position necessary to save his father, his brothers, and the future of Klal Yisrael.

The pit was not the end of the story. The prison was not the end of the story. Even when Yosef's life appeared to be moving downward, Hashem was moving him toward his destiny. And that is something we have to remember during our own difficult days.

A person has a setback and a door closes. Something they desperately wanted does not happen. Immediately we conclude, “This is terrible.” But how do we know? We do not know what is going to happen in the next moment. We do not know what opportunity Hashem is preparing. We do not know which door is quietly opening precisely because another one has closed.

Sometimes a person says, “Ribbono Shel Olam, if You would just give me this one thing, everything would be perfect. This is what I need. Give me this shidduch. Give me this job. Give me this opportunity. Let this situation work out—and my life will finally fall into place.”

And then it doesn't happen. We are devastated because we had already written the next chapter of our lives. But we are not the Borei Olam. We see the moment, but Hashem sees the story. “Kol d'avid Rachmana l'tav avid—Whatever the Merciful One does, He does for the good” (Berachos 60b).

There is an interesting halacha that brings this idea into sharp focus.

Every morning we recite the berachah, “She'asah li kol tzarchi”—Who has provided me with all my needs—a berachah associated with putting on one's shoes. Tishah B'Av, when we refrain from wearing ordinary leather shoes, forces us to confront a profound paradox. On the one hand, we believe that everything Hashem does is ultimately for our good. On the other hand, we sit on the floor and mourn because something essential is missing.

And those two truths are not contradictory.

Trusting Hashem does not mean pretending that loss is not loss. It does not mean looking at the Churban and saying, “We don't need the Beis HaMikdash.” Chas v'shalom. We mourn precisely because we do need it. Something immeasurably precious is absent from our lives.

Faith does not require us to call pain painless. It allows us to acknowledge the pain while trusting that Hashem sees a story larger than the chapter we are presently living. We can mourn what we have lost while still trusting that Hashem sees what we cannot.

Yosef HaTzaddik teaches us never to judge the entire journey by the chapter we happen to be living through. Today may be the pit and prison. Today may be the day when every door seems to have closed. But you do not know what Hashem has written on the next page. The pit may become the road to the palace. The setback may become the preparation. The closed door may redirect you toward the place you were meant to reach all along.

We see the descent. Hashem sees where it leads.

Stirred by Song

There is another fascinating teaching, cited by the Abarbanel.

There are few things capable of awakening such joy and love of Hashem as a song of deveikus—a holy niggun that lifts a person beyond himself and draws him closer to the Ribbono Shel Olam. We have witnessed this so many times, particularly over these past years how at gatherings throughout Klal Yisrael, a niggun suddenly begins. No one planned it. One person starts singing, another joins, and within moments an entire room is singing together.

There is enormous power in a niggun kodesh. And those gifted with the ability to create and sing these niggunim carry an extraordinary responsibility. Their voices can lift Klal Yisrael.

Think of the songs of Abie Rotenberg. Decades after they were composed, Jews throughout the world are still singing them. Consider a song such as Habein Yakir Li. What a privilege to create something that continues to awaken Jewish hearts, year after year, generation after generation.

The Abarbanel points to another remarkable dimension of music. A melody can help a person retain Torah (see Tosafos, Megilah 32a). A niggun does not merely entertain the mind; it can open the heart and allow something to penetrate more deeply.

We see the emotional power of music in the story of Shaul HaMelech.

Shaul was an extraordinary person—a king, a warrior and a talmid chacham. Yet after he failed to carry out Hashem's command regarding Amalek in its entirety, Shmuel HaNavi informed him that the monarchy would ultimately be taken from him.

Shaul fell into a profound state of distress. And who was brought to help him?

Dovid HaMelech.

The Navi tells us: “When the troubled spirit came upon Shaul, Dovid would take his harp and play. Shaul would experience relief; he would feel better, and the troubling spirit would leave him” (Shmuel I 16:23).

There is a profound lesson here. Even when a person finds himself in great sadness, there are ways to begin climbing upward. But there is an important word in that sentence:

Begin. We do not always leap from sadness to joy. Sometimes we have to move slowly.

There is a remarkable story told about Rav Elchonon Wasserman hy”d.

There was once a person in his community who had fallen into a state of deep sadness. People remembered the story of Dovid and Shaul and decided to use music to lift his spirits. So they brought musicians and played joyful songs. Happy songs and lively songs; music that was filled with energy. Nothing happened. The man remained exactly where he was emotionally.

Rav Elchonon understood the problem. “Don't begin with happy music,” he said. “Play something slow. Play something mournful.” They followed his advice. The musicians began playing a quiet, melancholy melody. And slowly, the man began listening. For the first time, the music seemed to reach him.

Then Rav Elchonon instructed them to change the melody slightly. Play something a little lighter, a little more hopeful. They did.

Then something a little more uplifting. And they continued, gradually moving from sadness toward hope, from hope toward warmth, from warmth toward joy.

Until eventually they were playing niggunim of genuine simcha, and the man was participating. It is an extraordinary insight into the human heart. Sometimes, when someone is hurting, we make the mistake of demanding that they immediately become happy. “Come on! Cheer up! Look at everything you have! Be b'simchah!”

But perhaps the distance between where they are and where we want them to be is simply too great. You have to meet a person where they are. And then move with them. Slowly and patiently, one step at a time.

That applies not only to helping someone else. It applies to ourselves as well. If you are standing outside the circle of simcha, you may not be able to leap immediately into the middle.

That's okay. Take one step and sing one niggun. Learn one thing that speaks to you, call one person or one chesed. Then take another step and then another. It may take time; sometimes a great deal of time. But never underestimate the possibility of movement.

Rebbe Nachman's mashal is so powerful: when someone is standing outside the circle, you take him by the hand and draw him into the dance. Sometimes that person standing outside the circle is you. So take yourself gently by the hand. Do not demand that you travel from darkness to overwhelming joy in a moment. Just begin moving toward the music, because sometimes the path from sadness to simcha is not a leap. It is a niggun, one note at a time.

From Shidduch to Siyum

A rav once called me. “Rabbi Goldwasser?” “Yes,” I answered. “How can I help you?” “I have someone facing a very serious nisayon, and I think perhaps you can help.” “Of course,” I said. “Bring him in.”

The rav arrived with a young man and explained what had happened. This young man was engaged to be married. His wedding was scheduled for Sunday. It was Wednesday. And suddenly, the wedding was off.

A relatively small incident had occurred—something that had nothing to do with the kallah's character, nothing to do with her family, nothing that most people would have considered significant enough to end a shidduch. But something had happened, emotions had escalated, and the engagement had been broken.

The rav asked me, “Can you try to put this back together?” I looked at him. “You're the rav. What exactly do you expect me to do?” “No,” he insisted. “Speak to him. See what you can do.” The rav left, and I sat down with the young man.

We spoke about his life and we spoke about his learning. I discovered that he woke up every morning at five o'clock to attend a shiur, and almost never missed. He davened consistently, he worked hard and he was pleasant, refined, good-natured.

I thought to myself, “This is a fine young man.” I told him, “I'm going to try.” I began making phone calls. I contacted the rav in the kallah's community. “I want to come tomorrow and meet with the family,” I said. “I'm also going to send an experienced mechaneches to speak with the kallah.”

I booked an Amtrak ticket and was prepared to spend the day there if necessary and do whatever I could to help them reconsider. Then the phone rang. “Don't come,” said the voice on the other line. “Why?” I asked. “There's nothing to discuss.” “I understand. But I would still like to come.” “No,” I was told. “Please don't.” “We have to try. A wedding is supposed to take place in a matter of days. Let me at least speak to them.”

The rav was firm. “Rabbi, I know who you are and I respect you. Please don't come. It won't accomplish anything, and it won't be l'fi kevodcha.” “I am willing to sacrifice my kavod. If someone has to be uncomfortable, let it be me rather than the chassan. Just let me try.” But they would not allow me to come.

I was even able, just in time, to stop the mechaneches from making the trip. And that was it. The wedding was canceled. But there was another painful complication.

Relatives were already traveling in from Eretz Yisrael. They had planned a large aufruf for that Shabbos. The chassan was a little older, and the family had prepared an elaborate celebration. There was an enormous amount of food, more than they could comfortably afford.

Everything had been prepared for a wedding that was no longer going to happen. I felt terrible. I turned to Hashem and said, Ribbono Shel Olam, “La'adam ma'archei lev, u'meHashem ma'aneh lashon—A person can prepare the thoughts of their heart. But the power of speech comes from Hashem.” “Please,” I said to Hashem, “please give me the right words. Give me something to say to this young man.

I went to see him. I said, “I need to ask your mechilah.” He looked at me. “For what?”

“I was your shaliach. I tried to help, and I wasn't successful. I couldn't put it back together. They wouldn't even let me come. I am sorry.” “Rabbi, please,” he said. “This has nothing to do with you.” “No,” I insisted. “I was your shaliach and a shaliach is supposed to accomplish his mission.” We went back and forth. I blamed myself; he insisted it was not my fault. And then something remarkable happened.

He became so concerned that I was blaming myself that he began comforting me. And finally, he smiled. “I'll be okay,” he said. “I'll get over it. It's not the first hard knock I've taken in my life.” I went home. Then I received another phone call.

It was the former chassan. “Rabbi, I barely know you. I've only known you for a day. But may I ask you something?” “Of course.”

“We have all this food prepared for the aufruf. And I had been planning to make a siyum before my wedding. So on Motzei Shabbos, we're going to use the food and make a Melaveh Malkah. I'm going to make the siyum then. It would mean a great deal to me if you would come.”

Motzei Shabbos, I went.

The same people who would have attended the aufruf came to the siyum. They ate and they sang and they danced. And then they lifted this young man onto their shoulders. I stood there watching him. A few days earlier, he had expected to be standing beneath a chuppah. Instead, his engagement had collapsed and the wedding had been canceled. The aufruf had disappeared. The future he thought he was about to begin had suddenly been taken away.

And yet here he was—dancing. I thought to myself, “What extraordinary strength.” He could not control what had happened to him. But he could decide what he would do with what remained.

The food prepared for an aufruf could become the food for a siyum. The gathering planned to celebrate a chassan could become a gathering celebrating Torah. A night that could have become a symbol of everything he had lost became instead a demonstration of everything he still possessed.

That is gevurah. Simchah does not mean that nothing hurts. It does not mean pretending that disappointment is not disappointing or that heartbreak does not break the heart. Simchah means refusing to allow the pain to take possession of everything else. Sometimes life cancels the celebration you planned. You cannot always restore what was lost. But you can ask: what can I build with what is still here?

This young man could not save his wedding. But he saved his simcha. And sometimes that is one of the greatest victories a human being can achieve.

Where You Begin Again

Look at the survivors of the Shoah. Who can comprehend what they endured? They emerged from a world that had been destroyed—families murdered, communities erased, homes and yeshivos reduced to ashes. And yet so many somehow found the strength not merely to survive, but to rebuild.

Consider the Klausenberger Rebbe, Rav Yekusiel Yehudah Halberstam zt”l. Before the war, he was physically weak. It is said that when he went to deliver a shiur, a bachur would carry his seforim because the Rebbe did not have the strength to carry them himself. And during the Shoah? This physically frail man was forced to perform brutal labor, carrying enormous loads under unimaginable conditions. He endured the camps and suffered horrific losses. His wife and eleven children were murdered. What would we expect from a person after such devastation? Who could have blamed him for spending the remainder of his life looking backward at everything that had been taken from him?

But the Klausenberger Rebbe looked forward. Even in the displaced-persons camps after the war, he began rebuilding Jewish life. He established schools and yeshivos and helped shattered survivors rediscover community, Torah, dignity and purpose. And he did not stop.

He rebuilt Klausenberg. He established a community in Union City. He built Kiryat Sanz in Eretz Yisrael. And he founded Laniado Hospital, a modern medical center dedicated to healing human beings.

Think about that. A man who had witnessed some of the greatest cruelty human beings could inflict upon one another devoted himself to building a place of healing. He could not rebuild the world that had been destroyed.

So he built a new one. That is one of the most extraordinary capacities Hashem has placed within the human being: the ability to say, “What happened to me will not determine what I can still become.”

Every individual possesses some measure of that power. Hashem waits for us. If something has not happened until now, it can happen now. It does not matter how many people have told you that you will never succeed. It does not matter what limitations others have placed upon you. No human being possesses an X-ray machine capable of looking into another person's neshama and determining what that person can ultimately become.

“Ein dan yechidi ela Echad—There is only One true Judge” (Avos 4:8). Only the Borei Olam knows the full potential hidden within a human being. Yet people become discouraged. “I tried. It didn't work.” “I thought I would accomplish more.” “I thought by this point in my life I would be somewhere else.”

Someone once told me, “Rabbi, if I had married somebody else, I could have become an adam gadol.” I thought to myself, “Now that's an interesting one.”

The Steipler Gaon taught otherwise. The person Hashem gives us to marry is not an accidental obstacle to the life we were supposed to have. That relationship itself is part of the life through which we are meant to grow. We make a mistake when we imagine greatness as belonging only to some alternate version of our lives. “If only I had different circumstances. If only I had married differently. If only I had more money. If only I had been given different abilities.”

Our avodah is not to become great in the imaginary life we were never given. It is to discover the greatness possible in the life Hashem actually gave us.

There is a fascinating description of Mashiach Tzidkeinu. How would we expect the redeemer of Klal Yisrael to arrive? Surely with majesty, royalty and pomp and ceremony. Yet the Navi describes him:“Ani v'rocheiv al chamor— Poor and riding upon a donkey” (Zechariah 9:9). Why a chamor?

Rav Dovid Kviat zt”l offered a beautiful insight. The chamor recalls Avraham Avinu at the Akeidah.“Vayashkem Avraham baboker, vayachavosh es chamoro—Avraham arose early in the morning, saddled his donkey” (Bereishis 22:3), and set out to fulfill the most difficult command of his life.

The donkey thus becomes a symbol of mesirus nefesh, of moving forward because something greater than ourselves calls upon us to do so. That is the force that has carried Klal Yisrael throughout history. The mesirus nefesh of Avraham Avinu. The mesirus nefesh of generations of Jews who sacrificed for Torah. And the mesirus nefesh we have witnessed in our own time.

We have heard stories of soldiers who saw a grenade about to explode among their fellow soldiers and threw themselves upon it, sacrificing their own lives to save the men around them. Who can measure such a sacrifice? Who can look at another Jew and presume to know his spiritual worth? Mi yode'a matan secharan shel tzaddikim? Who knows the reward of these tzaddikim? We do not know. We see fragments of another person's life. Hashem sees the whole person. And perhaps that is also why we must be so careful before deciding what we ourselves can become.

The Klausenberger Rebbe could have looked at the ashes of his world and concluded that his life's work was over. Instead, he built. Avraham Avinu could have looked at the mountain and stopped. Instead, he continued. Throughout our history, Jews have encountered circumstances that seemed to announce, “This is the end.” And somehow, they answered, “No. This is where I begin again.”

You may not be able to recover everything you lost. You may not be able to rewrite the chapters already written. But as long as Hashem gives you another day, you can still write the next chapter.

And sometimes the greatest things a person builds are built precisely after everything else has fallen apart.

The Poor Man Who Moves Forward

Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach zt”l once said that a person could go to the grave of a soldier who gave his life for Klal Yisrael and daven there. Such mesirus nefesh has enormous significance.

But let us return to the description of Mashiach: “Ani v’rocheiv al chamor—A poor man riding upon a donkey.”

Rav Dovid Kviat zt”l offered a profound interpretation. What does ani, poor, mean?

It can refer not only to material poverty, but to a certain poverty in ruchniyus. A person looks at himself and thinks: I am not learning as much as I could. I am not davening as well as I should. I am not giving as much tzedakah as I could. I am not putting myself into mitzvos the way I should. Spiritually, I feel impoverished. And sometimes other people are only too happy to reinforce that feeling.

A person once told me about his experience at work. He tries his best. He works hard. But his manager constantly points out what he did wrong. “This wasn't right.” “That wasn't good enough.” “You should have done this differently.”

After hearing criticism day after day, a person begins to wonder, “Maybe I really am that bad. Maybe I simply don't have what it takes.” But ani v'rocheiv al chamor teaches us something extraordinary. Even the person who feels like an ani, who sees everything he lacks and everything he has not yet accomplished, must continue moving forward. Do not allow your deficiencies to rob you of your simcha. Do not confuse “I have more to accomplish” with “I am incapable of accomplishing.”

Those are two entirely different statements. Look at Dovid HaMelech. Dovid HaMelech was the Ne'im Zemiros Yisrael, the sweet singer of Israel, the ancestor of Mashiach. And yet what kind of life did he live? “Sarim redafuni chinam—Princes pursued me without cause” (Tehillim 119:161). Dovid was hunted, maligned, threatened and forced to flee. There were people who wanted his position, his reputation, and even his life.

And yet he says, “U'midvarecha pachad libi.” What ultimately frightened Dovid was not the people pursuing him. It was Hashem. In effect, Dovid HaMelech was saying, “If I know that I am doing what Hashem wants from me, I cannot allow the voices around me to determine who I am.” That is an essential principle in life.

When you believe something is right, you have to be willing to try. When you have an idea that can accomplish something good, pursue it. When you fall, get up. When someone tells you that you cannot succeed, remember that they do not know your future. No human being has the authority to place a ceiling on another person's potential. Not your teacher. Not the person who rejected you. Not the person who underestimated you. And sometimes, not even yourself.

Ein dan yechidi ela Echad. There is only One ultimate Judge. Only Hashem knows what lies inside a human being. Only Hashem knows what that person can still become. And that is why the words of the Navi are so powerful: “Ki nafalti, kamti—Though I have fallen, I will rise.”

Perhaps there is an even deeper way to understand those words. I do not rise despite the fact that I fell. Sometimes, I rise because I fell. The fall taught me something. It strengthened me and forced me to discover abilities I did not know I possessed. It redirected me toward a path I might otherwise never have found.

If you feel like an ani—if you look at yourself and see everything you have not yet become—do not despair. You are not finished. If yesterday was disappointing, tomorrow is still unwritten. If others have underestimated you, they may simply have underestimated what Hashem placed within you. And if you have fallen, remember: Ki nafalti, kamti. A fall is not a verdict. It may simply be the place from which Hashem is asking you to rise.

One Out of Ninety-Nine

A student once came to speak with me about seminary. She had a dilemma. There was a particular seminary she wanted to attend, but it was not considered, at least in the popular perception, as one of the “best” seminaries. Still, she felt strongly that this was the place where she would succeed.

I listened to her carefully. Finally, I said, “If you genuinely feel that this is where you will be matzliach, then go with beracha.” I didn't realize what I had just stepped into.

Less than twelve hours later, the phone rang. It was the principal of her school. “K’vod Ha’Rav…” Whenever a conversation begins with K’vod Ha’Rav, you have to be careful. “Yes?” I said. “A student came to speak with you about attending a certain seminary, and I understand that the Rav told her to go with beracha. Our entire staff feels differently.”

I immediately apologized. “I didn't know there had been a discussion,” I said. “I didn't know the staff had reached a different conclusion. I'm sorry.” The principal began explaining the practical considerations. Seminary matters, reputation matters. And, of course, there was the inevitable word: “Shidduchim.” I had quite a bit I wanted to say. But there is a time for chochmah, and there is a time for shtikah. So I remained quiet.

Later, however, I remembered a story about Rav Shach zt”l. Parents once approached Rav Shach regarding a young woman who had been suggested for their son. They had a concern. “The girl seems wonderful,” they said, “but the seminary she attended is not considered one of the best seminaries.” Rav Shach responded simply: “Your son is going out with the girl. He is not going out with the seminary.”

There is tremendous wisdom in that sentence. We love categories, rankings and labels. This is a top school. That is an average school. This is the right background. That is the wrong background. But human beings are not institutions.

At the same time, a person must always retain humility. “Ashrei adam mefached tamid.” A person should always be willing to ask: Perhaps I am wrong and I missed something. Perhaps there is another perspective I need to consider.

The Satmar Rebbe zt”l offered a remarkable interpretation of the principle “Yachid v'rabbim, halachah k'rabbim—When an individual and a majority disagree, the halachah follows the majority.” Why, he asked, does the expression begin yachid v'rabbim? Why not simply say halachah k'rabbim? He explained homiletically. Yachid v'rabbim—when the Yachid, the One Above, is together with the rabbim, then certainly follow the rabbim. But if the majority is not aligned with the Ribbono Shel Olam, then sometimes a person must have the courage to stand alone.

“Echad hayah Avraham.” Avraham Avinu stood against an entire world.

I davened that everything should work out for this young woman. And she went to the seminary. She flourished and grew tremendously. She developed her middos and she was happy. By every meaningful measure, the seminary was an excellent choice for her. Then she returned home.

There had been ninety-nine girls in her class. And the first of those ninety-nine girls to become engaged—to an outstanding young man—was the girl who had attended the “wrong” seminary. Who knows? Who possesses the vision to declare with certainty which road will lead another human being to success?

We need tremendous chizuk in our generation. And perhaps even more importantly, we need to give chizuk to one another.

Ish es rei'eihu ya'azoru. You see someone on the street. Say hello. “How are you? It's so good to see you.” You have no idea what those few words can accomplish.

I once saw someone at an event and said, “It's great to see you!” He looked surprised. “You remember me?” he asked. “How could I forget you?” It was a tiny exchange. But we do not know what another person is carrying. We cannot know what one sincere expression of warmth may mean to someone who feels invisible.

And nowhere is this more important than with our children. A child comes home from school. “How was your test?” “I got a sixty-five.” What is our instinct? “Sixty-five? What did you expect? You barely studied! I told you to open the sefer. What did Shloimy get? I saw him learning last night. Let me guess, he got a ninety-five. Maybe one day you'll learn.”

And then, after we have thoroughly crushed the child: “Okay, I don't want to belabor the point…” Belabor the point? There may not be much left to belabor!

Imagine instead looking at that child and saying: “You got a sixty-five? Okay. Everyone gets a sixty-five sometimes. Some people get a forty-five; some get a thirty-five. That's one test. It doesn't tell me who you are, and it certainly doesn't tell me who you will become. I believe in you. One day you're going to know so much Torah. Maybe I'll come to you with a shailah. Maybe you'll be my rebbe and maybe you'll be the person giving me advice. This test doesn't define you.”

Imagine what that does to a child. And imagine if we spoke that way to our spouses. A husband comes home and sees the challah his wife prepared. “This challah is unbelievable. You should know, this gives me strength for the entire week.” A wife says to her husband, “I respect you. I appreciate how hard you work. I appreciate your learning. I value your ideas. I'm happy when you come home.”

These are simple sentences. But simple sentences build people. We are so quick to identify what is wrong. What would happen if we became equally skilled at identifying what is right?

Rebbe Nachman taught, “Mitzvah gedolah lihyos b'simchah tamid— It is a great mitzvah to live with simcha.” Sadness itself may not always be an aveira. But look where prolonged despair can carry a person. And simcha? Look at the heights to which it can lift someone.

Ki nafalti, kamti. If I fell, I can rise. It does not matter in which area of life. Finances. Marriage. Shidduchim. Chinuch. Even, rachmana litzlan, health. Ki nafalti, kamti.

And when it is our child who has fallen? Perhaps that is precisely when the child needs us most. “My child didn't succeed? I still love him.” “She isn't where I hoped she would be? She's still my child.”

The one who has traveled furthest may be the one we need to hold closest. Hug them. Love them. Believe in them. Because you simply do not know. The child struggling today may become the person everyone turns to tomorrow; the student in the “wrong” seminary may flourish beyond everyone's expectations; and the person who received another no may be one yes away from an entirely different life.

Never define another person by where they are today. And never define yourself that way either. Ki nafalti, kamti. I fell. And therefore, I know what comes next.

I get back up.