Ignite the match

The whisper within calls you to ignite the match for a “Pocket in Time.”

Walking down paved roads, there are interchangeable words for helping heroes: lamplighters, good angels, emissaries; the term irrelevant for those who react to the calling to help: those who carefully and with great focus relinquish the hero within to the street lamps. 

Their faces, once hidden beneath the veil of night, could now be seen from the lamplights; each lantern’s minute embers almost faded from the exhaustive hope and search for a spark, a match, or a twig set alight that would ignite it once again. 

The littlest ember of each lantern now burned with strong flames, but as the lamplighters jumped down from the tall lamplights into the distance, their shadows and brightly lit smiles became a good memory—a memory left with an imprint and a smile. The care, love, and cherishing are sprinkled like a piece of good luck dusting as the sugar highlights a treasured dessert on the new soul that enters the Chabad house. 

The routine in our Chabad house has slightly changed because summer is never the real meaning of summer for Chabad centers; it just means more tourists or newcomers come through. The meet and greet of many is sometimes a brief encounter. It’s a tease on the emissaries, divine providence, meaning the personal divine intervention of one with destiny. It gives the individual the chance for a lamplighter to ignite the match. It’s to climb higher in one’s potential to have had a summer Shabbos experience -where a deep seed, once planted, starts to bear fruit and be the best form of oneself. 

It’s like my five senses were more awake than ever; perhaps someone needed a Chabad rebbetzin. The soul is never shy, but the case, the person oneself, can be at times. I heard about a Yid who had no place to go, who was staying by the Chabad house, a home away from home, and needed meals. I made him food the entire week, but our interactions were limited: kids, camp, and my older sons were home and wanted my attention; teaching three classes per night daily and adding toppings of morning classes for our community kept me busy. 

My husband, the community’s rabbi, always lent a helping hand regardless of his schedule. His gentle approach was like that of a loving grandfather to a child in need. 

The newcomer introduced himself as a Druzi convert, but he was pretty much tight-lipped about his story and life encounters. The secrets of his past became a closed, sealed door, regardless of a curious rebbetzin’s attempts to gently pry. 

I, the rebbetzin, took in the hard evidence that he was no longer a practicing Jew, and it deeply saddened me. His answers to my few questions were brief, nuanced, and held themselves with a tinge of anger and annoyance. It seemed to me his attitude on life was like an ugly mosquito that one couldn’t swat away, not even from his own self. I focused on what I could do to help and tried to excuse his big chip on the shoulder, choosing to disregard his bad manners; perhaps he was just having a bad day. 

Shabbos came, and our Chabad house started to fill up; my boys in town, who had come in from yeshiva, made it extra special, and the zemerios began. As our Shabbos meal became very talkative, more than usual-where conversations were flying, laughter could be heard, and a good story from the rabbi told- this week held its usual Chabad twinkle, which has different platforms of connecting one’s community to each other.

However, enhanced by the love of my sons reuniting with childhood friends and “uncles,” affectionately termed, to those who have known my “Big Boys” since infancy, they created a deep warmth in the room that felt unique, cherished and adored. They made those present want to keep the atmosphere forever in one’s pocket for safekeeping.  

My smile half faded when my eyes caught the new guest standing and choosing not to sit. He just stood there, and this time, I noticed the disfiguration of his posture—a very noticeable handicap. This made me, a Jewish mother-on-steroids and an over-caring rebbetzin, worry even more.

My husband recently informed me that he, our guest, suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder from fighting in Gaza a few years ago. Perhaps, I wondered to myself, “Was it hard for him to sit down with a group?”

Having totally forgotten the conversation earlier, he, our Jewish Druzi, personally took notice to remind me of it. It was on full display because he suddenly proclaimed loudly and in front of our Shabbos table: “My story is like this since you, Rebbetzin, and all the rest of you,” he pointed, accentuating each person in the room regardless of those who were paying attention or not. “Seems that you’re curious about my life. Well, here it is: I grew up Druze; the Druze live in Israel and are not Muslim or Christian; they are Arabs. Personally, my parents were on the wrong side of the law, and they held deep roots in the Druze mob. At 13 years old, I chose a different life that only inspired, intrigued, and felt right to me: conversion to Judaism.” 

His inspiration in his storytelling seemed to wane, and his tone changed to a sadder, lower pitch. “I had a hard life, and when I joined the IDF, I was sent to Gaza, not this war but the previous one. It was there that I experienced my friends being shot, and I personally was tragically bombed with a C-4 explosive. It went off, throwing me twenty feet in the air, which basically crippled me. It was a miracle that I survived, but many of my friends didn’t.”

“Wow!” I said slowly, choosing the tone of how I said it. “Hashem made you a big miracle.” I showed him appreciation for his willingness to share his story with others regardless of his tasteless introduction.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” he said abruptly.

Sadly, he seemed so bitter. It was a tragedy that he still seemed to be frozen in time. I gently asked him what made him decide to convert. It was my way of reigniting the spark within him and changing the topic for a sweeter story. What made him love Hashem? Why embrace Judaism?

These curious questions of mine are usually a great opener to allow congregants to remember why they chose Hashem and why they embrace Torah and mitzvos? But the key to his treasure chest has remained tightly sealed. His curiosity was trampled, and there was no spark to bring about that moment of thanks. He felt defeated and shattered and couldn’t seem to know what could be beyond his two feet. 

At some point throughout our Friday night meal, he noticed my son laughing with his brother and pointed at him that he was the so-called “remote” of the room. That idea, the center of attention, is what intrigued him, something that he tried to claim as his own and held tight to it like a diamond and never let the moment of being the “remote” go. 

I realized he was stuck in this shallow idea of vanity, and I naively asked him if his idea of the “remote” meant the “heart.” Does he think my son is the “heart” of the room? I told him that I have seven hearts, my seven sons, and I wouldn’t place anyone over the other; they are all unique in their own way. This is the way that Rabbi and I feel about our community, our spiritual children. 

My warmth and hope to sway the conversation and send it down a different walkway failed because he loved to be the “remote” and had spent the rest of the night perfecting this point. I, however, enjoyed the farbrengen and collective voices that made up a beautiful community Shabbos experience. 

The next morning, as always, I enjoyed my space and quiet time with Hashem on Shabbos morning. Most women came Friday night to splurge and embrace the Shabbos meal and the conversations and Farbrengen that go with it. 

However, on Shabbos day, some ladies come, but most have little kids and live too far for the walk, and sometimes, Shabbos can be without. At this time, I take to the embrace of solitude; I love the office where I can have my Tehillim, Psalms, sefarim, books, siddur, prayer book, and just enjoy the time alone with G-d. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw this newcomer pacing back and forth in the women’s section; a minyan already started, but he did not join them. Usually, I would shoo the men to the men’s section, for I never knew when I would have a few ladies come, but seeing that he was like a little kid, and I was already in the office, and no women were in the lady section at the moment, I allowed it. 

After some time, I noticed he still looked uncomfortable, so I came out of the office and asked him, “Is something bothering you?”  

“Nothing more than usual; I’m in pain.”

I felt bad, so I told him, “Look, each Shabbos I try to finish the whole Tehillim for my family and those in need. Can I have your name to pray for you?”

“Why do you need my name to pray? Ok,” he said and gave me his name.

“Why Sarah and not Chava?” he pondered out loud.

I was shocked that this simple, well-known detail evaded him. I explained to him that Chava, the mother of all life, was a Noachide, a very special woman who was not Jewish. Sarah, Avraham’s wife, was the first Jewish woman, so we say one’s name like ben, the son of, Sarah.

I went back to my davening, as good as it would get with my older sons. My littlest sons found excuses to talk to me, their mommy, and wanted to feel special as if they were the only ones in my universe. I explained and pointed out that I was davening or reciting Tehillim, but it didn’t stop the intrusion. They sat quietly, each one on their own time, next to me. 

Finally, the community sat together for the Shabbos meal, which gave me a chance to ask, “How are you feeling?” 

“Always bad,” he told me. 

“You know,” I said to him, “Life can be tough. But in my mind, there are two approaches: A person experiences difficulty, feels upset from the experience, never recovers, and expects one to understand that this is how one will be for the rest of one’s life. This is one’s choosing. Another and better approach is turning the bad experience into a positive one, nurturing others who have suffered, and being the example of someone who has endured and is still smiling.”

My mind raced to see if he understood my approach rather than feeling insulted or defeated. To my relief, I could see that this was planting a seed; the wheels were turning. Would he grab and cling to this approach, drop it on the wayside, and feel comfortable where he was?

I came to prepare classes, and he quietly asked for things. The next morning, I woke up to a slam of the screen door, thinking it was later than usual and realizing, wait a second, I told myself, my kids were in New York; who would be visiting the house or leaving the house at five in the morning? Could he still be in town? Why would he be visiting? 

On the porch chair stood our Chabad house packages, and I understood our guest was trying in his own way to be thankful and help out. 

It felt like sunflowers began to bloom, and I could see that seeds had already sprouted. Little by little, he would realize the beauty of giving, helping, and uplifting others. “To love one’s fellow as oneself”: this is the real answer to true healing. 

In the early afternoon, I came with my young sons to print out my material for the community classes that I would have that evening when I saw a note. I flipped the other side over and saw it was a response to my note about making sure he had food for the past few days while he was there. He replied, “Thank you to the rabbi and you for showing me kindness.” 

I was thankful. I understood that the wheels that seemed rusted on Shabbos were moving faster than imagined and that branches soon would have fruit. It was a summer’s Shabbos, and each Chabad House, the Lamplighter Center, carefully ignites the souls of those who choose to be impacted by light, love, and the Torah.

The Lanterns became lit, and the lamplighters succeeded in this mission and went on to the next. One could barely notice their hard work and the precision with which the streetlamps so high up had to be lit, making sure the ladders were paced just right, but the lamplighters never complained. Like a good old favorite recipe, a grandmother can prepare it in her sleep: Ignite the match, pour on the gasoline, and keep the soul shiny – their job, which is what buzzes the inner bee of the emissary.