The Weight of the Lawn
When two boys called in sick for the school rugby team, Dave’s name was pulled out of a hat. He protested immediately—he wasn’t strong or broad—but his teammates encouraged him, insisting that as the fastest runner in his year, his speed would be a valuable asset on the field.
The day of the match arrived under heavy skies. As Dave ran onto the pitch, his heart sank. The opposing team looked like fully grown men. Their shoulders were broad, and they projected a quiet, imposing confidence. Facing them, Dave felt outmatched.
Against the odds, Dave’s team held their own. By halftime, they were comfortably ahead. Dave had barely been involved, but it made no difference. For the second half, he was placed in defense and told to stay alert.
Then the heavens opened.
Rain pounded down, turning the grass to mud and jerseys into sodden weights. A kick went upfield, climbing higher and higher until it seemed to touch the sky before dropping straight into Dave’s hands.
It was the first time he had touched the ball all game.
He didn’t move. He barely breathed. Then he heard it: a roar—a war cry—rising from in front of him. The opposing team surged forward as one, boots tearing through the mud, eyes fixed, a single mass of momentum charging straight at him.
Dave froze.
Instinct took over. He turned and ran as fast as he could, heading toward his own goalposts. From the sidelines came shouting, his teammates yelling at him to stop, to pass, to turn. The noise blurred into panic. At the last moment, with bodies closing in, he flung the ball blindly over his shoulder.
It landed cleanly in the hands of the opposing team, who grounded it without resistance. The match ended in a draw.
In the changing room afterward, there was no silence—only anger. Dave was shoved as he tried to get changed. Names were hurled from every direction. He looked toward the team manager for help, but the man simply turned away.
Years later, Dave would say it wasn’t the own goal that stayed with him—it was the moment of abandonment. And the face he never forgot was Matthew, the captain who had started the shouting and led the others into it.
Life moved on. Dave grew up, got married, and had children. The past, he assumed, had stayed where it belonged—packed away, dulled by time. Until the house next door was sold.
Dave remembers the day the removal van pulled up. A man stepped out, giving instructions, laughing with an unthinking confidence. Dave froze. It was Matthew.
The years had softened him, but not enough to disguise him. Matthew showed no sign of recognition. For months, they lived as polite neighbors, exchanging comments about the weather across the driveway. No history was mentioned.
Their wives, however, became close friends. Coffee turned into long walks; Shabbat afternoons were shared. Before long, Matthew and Dave were davening in the same shul, standing just a few rows apart. Dave watched it all unfold quietly while old memories stirred—persistent and unresolved.
One afternoon, Dave looked out of his window and saw Matthew at the back of his car, struggling to lift a heavy petrol lawnmower from the boot. He hoisted it partway, then set it down, pressing a hand into his lower back in obvious pain.
Dave stood still. He could have turned away. He had twenty years of justification to do so. Instead, something else surfaced—not emotion, not forgiveness—but obligation.
Dave stepped outside.
“Can I give you a hand?”
Matthew turned, startled, then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That would help.”
Together they lifted the mower and eased it out of the boot. Dave pushed it to the back garden shed while Matthew walked beside him, grateful but quiet.
A few days later, Dave’s wife handed him a wrapped bottle with a card:
“Thanks, Dave. Really appreciate you helping me out. Shabbat Shalom, Matt.”
It was a bottle of Glenlivet 18—Dave’s favorite.
This quiet neighborly exchange mirrors a profound legal requirement found in Parashat Mishpatim. Buried among laws of damages and responsibility is a counterintuitive command:
When you see the donkey of one who hates you struggling under its burden… you shall surely help with him
כִּי־תִרְאֶה חֲמוֹר שֹׂנַאֲךָ רֹבֵץ תַּחַת מַשָּׂאוֹ וְחָדַלְתָּ מֵעֲזֹב לוֹ — עָזֹב תַּעֲזֹב עִמּוֹ
(Exodus 23:5)
The Torah does not ask whether the hatred is justified. It does not wait for an apology or a recognition of past wrongs. The commandment is precise: when you see someone in need, you move.
Chazal note that if one encounters a friend and an enemy both needing help, the enemy takes precedence. This is not to reward the enemy, but to confront the yetzer hara—the part of the human heart inclined toward resentment. The Maharal explains that behavior shapes character more reliably than intention. We do not wait for the heart to change before we act; we act so that the heart might change.
The Torah’s language is exacting: help with him. Not for him. It refuses to let us act from a moral distance. It demands proximity—shoulder to shoulder, under the same weight.
Most of us will never find a donkey collapsed under a burden. But we encounter the principle often: a colleague, a neighbor, or a family member who once caused us pain. The Torah does not demand reconciliation or emotional closure. It asks only that we do not look away.
Sometimes, the act of lifting a heavy burden together—even a lawnmower—is enough to crack the ice, to break what decades of silence never could. The Torah insists on movement. It insists on proximity. Because when you lift the same weight, the “enemy” begins, quietly, to look human again.
שבת שלום
שמואל
