The account of the following incident made its way to our office in France and caused tremendous chizuk among all who read it:
My name is Jonathan A. I am thirty years old and live in Drancy, Paris. I work for a huge firm called Generali, which is divided up into various departments. Altogether, this firm employs approximately five thousand workers.
Every Shabbat, I pray at the synagogue in Blanc-Mesnil, near Paris. For years, I would pray by rote, never feeling especial emotion or concentration in my prayers. Slowly but surely, I veered from the path of Torah.
But Hashem did not give up on me. He sent His messenger to bring me back to the path of righteousness. A young woman in our congregation became engaged to a very pious young man by the name of Jeremy, from the Nineteenth Quarter in Paris. Whoever observed Jeremy’s prayers could not but sense his pure intentions. His special way of praying instilled in me the desire to pray like him, as well as commit myself to Torah study. On Shabbat, I had the merit of learning Torah together with him. We even conducted a competition between us to see who could come up with original Torah insights. This paved my path to teshuvah.
One evening, Jeremy called me up and invited me to join him for a Torah shiur on the Rue du Plateau. I agreed on the spot. I had often tried to participate in Torah classes of various rabbanim, but I could never find one that was suited to my needs.
Rabbi Yoel, shlita, was the speaker that evening, and he talked about the topic of teshuvah. To my chagrin, after only three sessions, I stopped going. My Yetzer Hara had talked me into believing that my teshuvah was airtight, and there was no need for further support. Of course, once I stopped going, my spiritual level plummeted. Only after I realized this, did I take the reins in hand and continue coming to the shiurim, but this time with humility and subservience.
During the first session that I attended after returning, Hashgachah pratit arranged that Rabbi Yoel should speak about a subject that really spoke to me. He said that when a person believes his teshuvah is stalwart, it is a definite sign that it is weak and crumbling. I felt he was the mouthpiece of Heaven, speaking directly to me. I determined not to forego one shiur of this wonderful man. I made good on my vow, never missing a shiur. But I felt that something was missing.
Then Heaven arranged that Rabbi Yoel should deliver the shiur that changed my life forever. He spoke about the power of prayer and explained how a person should pray. When I was a little tyke in preschool, I learned the words of tefillah, but Rabbi Yoel showed us how to put our hearts into the words.
After the lecture, everyone stood up to begin the Ma’ariv prayer. With extreme concentration, I asked Hashem, “Why did I fall so low in my spirituality? Why do I not feel anything when I pray? I so long to do teshuvah!”
Hashem answered my prayers immediately. A physically handicapped young man, who had been present at the shiur, slowly walked over to me. Watching him make his painstaking way over, I felt that Hashem was responding to my question. It was my impetuousness and impatience which barred my path from reaching Hashem. Then and there, I undertook to act according to the advice of Rabbi Yoel: To walk slowly but securely, one rung at a time. Only when I felt stable with my spiritual level would I endeavor to climb to the next one.
I like my job and am satisfied with the conditions. My department employs only ten workers. The work is interesting, and the atmosphere is pleasant. But there is one woman, in her fifties, with the initials J.V. She is not an agreeable person to deal with, to say the least. She comes to work with her dog and is a real racist.
When I am at work, I feel it is my duty to change her mindset, or at least to minimize her anti Semitic leanings. I often purchase a cup of coffee for her at the coffee machine and do other small acts of benevolence, which I hope will alter her outlook on Jews as a whole. I believe my actions create a kiddush Hashem in the workplace.
One Thursday in November, I awoke in an especially good mood. I decided to begin tithing my money for charity, apart from the other mitzvot I generally do. I put forth a prayer that Hashem should give me more so that I could give more to His children. That evening, as was my custom, I attended Rabbi Yoel’s evening shiur. He told us that whatever Hashem does is for our best, even if we do not realize it immediately. We are obligated to thank Him for everything, no matter what.
I drove home with my friend, Jeremy. Near Rue Petit, in the Nineteenth Quarter, we noticed an elderly man who was having trouble walking.
We looked at each other in wonder. Jeremy spoke first. “Jonathan, I am sure that I saw this man here last week, after the shiur. When I offered to walk him home, he flatly refused.”
I began to tremble. I, too, had seen this man last week in this very same spot. But it was half an hour after Jeremy had seen him. How could this be? Jeremy spoke up. “Maybe today he does want us to take him somewhere. Open the window and offer him a lift.”
I did as he said. To our surprise, the old man accepted my offer. We took him to his destination. Jeremy said that at this man’s pace, it would have taken him two hours to get there. The old man blessed us over and over. We felt good to have done this mitzvah.
I let Jeremy off at his house on Rue Petit. I was filled with a sense of satisfaction. I had merited performing the mitzvot of charity, praying with concentration, and doing a kindness with this elderly man.
After about another ten minute drive, I finally arrived home. There is a stop sign a couple of meters from my house. As I reached it, I looked in all directions. The streets were clear, so I continued on without stopping. Not a moment passed before I heard the wailing of police sirens. They had caught me red-handed. They stopped me and ordered me to pull over. I politely listened. I have learned that the price of anger and impulsiveness is very steep.
“You did not stop by a stop sign. Hand over your license and registration, please.”
“I don’t have either of them with me,” I said. “I left everything in my other coat. I live across the street on the third floor. I’ll leave my car keys with you if you want, while I go up to get the papers.”
But the officer was adamant. “You’re supposed to have your documents with you, not at home!” he bellowed.
I had nothing to answer the cop after his valid accusation. I pulled out a form that was lying in my car, which had my full name on it. Maybe this would help matters.
The policeman contacted the central police station and confirmed that indeed, I had a license. He stepped aside and began filling out tickets: A fine for driving through a stop sign, a fine for not having my driver’s license with me, a fine for not having the car’s registration papers with me, a fine for not having the insurance forms with me …
As the minutes went by, my mind began wandering back to Rabbi Yoel’s shiur that evening. He said that one can speak to Hashem at any given time, for any reason at all. One should never be afraid to speak to Hashem in his own language, and aloud, asking for whatever it is he needs.
I entered my car and began to yell at the top of my lungs, “Hashem, today I did everything for You. And now this happens. But I don’t have any grievances toward You. I even thank You. Everything is for my best. Thank You! Thank You!”
The second cop noticed that I was talking. He motioned with his stick that I should come out. “Who were you talking to just now?” he demanded.
“I was talking on my cell phone,” I replied.
“You’re making me into a fool,” he stated. “Who were you talking to? All of the fines you got are not enough?” he threatened me.
I decided I would speak the truth. “You know what, Mr. Officer? I’ll tell you the truth. I spoke just now with G-d and thanked Him for everything that happened. I am paying up for my sins in this world so that I can arrive at the World to Come with a clean slate.”
The policeman did not buy my story. He threw me against the car and began a thorough search of my clothes. He was looking for drugs or drink, but he found neither. He decided to run an alcotest, which reveals if a driver drank an alcoholic beverage before hitting the road. This too, came out clear. The only thing he came up with was my work card, which said Generali, with my name and picture.
In the meantime, the first cop finished with his battery of fines. He now said, “We have to take you and the car to the police station in order to check out your identity. We have no proof that you’re Jonathan A.”
Upon hearing these words, I said, “I live here. Come, walk me home and there you’ll find all the documentation you need. That will make things easier for me as well as you.”
But the officer declined. That was just not the way things were done.
Then the second cop intervened. “He’s called Jonathan A. I found his work card at Generali, with his name and picture.”
Finally, a hint of a smile appeared on the first policeman’s face. “Do you really work for Generali?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered in all innocence.
“Do you know the woman by the initials J.V.?” the policeman asked suspiciously.
“Of course,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”
The cop then took out his cell phone. He pressed a few buttons and waited a moment. “Hello,” he said when someone picked up. “Do you know anyone by the name Jonathan A.?”
“Of course, and I owe him a debt of gratitude. You’d better not make him any trouble now!” his wife shouted from the other end of the line.
The man finally said good-bye to my co-worker. Then he tore all of my fines to fine shreds. He allowed me to go home without further delay.
This incident taught me a few lessons. First and foremost, Torah and mitzvot always protect a person from harm. Additionally, everything that happens is for the best. Hashem is omnipotent and can do things that contradict nature. He can make a policeman write out a series of tickets and then rip them to pieces.
Moreover, I learned about the power of prayer. Had I not entered my car to put forth a petition to Hashem, the cop would never have frisked me and found my work card. I would not have been witness to this amazing turn of events. But since I offered a prayer from the depths of my heart, Hashem came to my aid in a most dramatic way and saved me from my predicament.
A Case of Heavenly Protection
My holy father, Rabbi Moshe Aharon, zy”a, was once on his way from Morocco to Eretz Yisrael. He suddenly realized that his suitcase, containing his money and passport, was missing. He was greatly distressed by this.
He immediately turned to Hashem in supplication. He asked that the merit of his father, Rabbi Chaim Pinto, should protect him, and his suitcase should remain untouched.
His prayers were heeded. Father retraced his steps and found his suitcase intact, resting exactly where he had left it.
Years later, I found myself traveling by train to Paris. As I was disembarking, there was a great tumult. Many people wished to get on the train, and there was a lot of pushing. As I tried to make my way off the train before the doors closed. I forgot my valise, which contained my divrei Torah, as well as money, passports, and official documents which were necessary for my journey.
I only realized a while later that I was missing my valise. I became very distraught. I was upset about losing the copious handwritten divrei Torah, into which I had invested tremendous effort. It is the spiritual acquisitions which I amass in this world that will escort me on my final journey and speak in my defense in the World to Come. In contrast, the loss of money and passports would prove a headache and inconvenience merely in this world.
As my father before me, I turned to Hashem, asking Him to allow me to find my valise, in the merit of my holy ancestors. I returned to the place where I thought I had left it. It was safe and sound, waiting patiently for my return.
My companions had already given up on ever finding the lost valise. They had told me there was no chance I would ever retrieve it. Imagine their surprise at seeing it in my hands. They thought their eyes were playing tricks on them. Finding the valise amid all the chaos of the train station was nothing short of a miracle of the highest order.
I, too, was stunned by this turn of events. The train station is a place abuzz with humanity, as thousands pass by every hour. How is it possible to locate a lone valise amidst all the hubbub and hullabaloo there? And how could it be that no one else noticed a forsaken valise?
We must train ourselves to believe, unquestioningly, that Hashem can do anything, even that which contradicts the normal course of events, rendering the seeing blind, if He is so disposed, as the pasuk states, “They have eyes but cannot see.” In this manner, I reclaimed my valise and continued on my way.
Many years after my father’s passing, I found a note among a pile of papers he had left behind, in my sister’s house in New York. It said, “The secret of Moshe Rabbeinu was revealed to me from Heaven.” When I read this, I nearly keeled over. I never knew that my father had merited a Divine Revelation. Now, years after his death, I discovered this revealing note.
There is no doubt that had father told me in his lifetime that he merited a Divine Revelation, I would have been skeptical. Therefore, Hashem arranged things so that I should find this note only years later, when I was capable of appreciating another aspect of Father’s greatness.
Lineage Is a Tool to Serve Hashem
I often meet ignorant Jews who take pride in their rabbinic lineage, as their families boast a history of rich Torah giants. This makes them secure in the belief that they will merit a portion in the World to Come. They themselves, though, don’t bother to invest in Avodat Hashem and fritter away their lives on inanities.
A man once approached me, all smiles, as though we were old acquaintances. When he saw that I did not recognize him, he asked me, surprised, “How can it be that the Rav doesn’t recognize me? I’m the son of so-and-so, a great tzaddik, the son of so-and-so, a tzaddik in his own right. These were great tzaddikim of note. Certainly the Rav knows who they were!”
I replied, “Of course I heard of your righteous father. I even knew your grandfather, who was a great Torah scholar. I knew these men by the merit of their Torah knowledge. But you, I don’t recognize at all. I never even heard about you! How do you have the audacity to take pride in the Torah of your fathers, when you do not continue in their distinguished ways?”
The Jew’s mission in this world is to exert himself in Avodat Hashem and acquire a portion in Torah and mitzvot. These merits will advocate on his behalf in Olam Haba, and his neshamah will have the honor of sitting among the neshamot of his righteous fathers. But he should not rely only on the merit of his ancestors to protect him from harm.
The maxim “When will my deeds reach those of my forefathers?” applies only to those who continue the legacy of their ancestors by serving Hashem as they should. But often, the descendants glorify themselves in their lineage and fail to uphold the connection to their exalted past. They thereby hurt and shame their holy fathers in the Upper Worlds.
Torah Is Not a Given
I was once asked to deliver an address in a yeshiva, late at night. I was very impressed to be met by four hundred young men, involved in their Torah studies. The staff members pointed out three boys who had been far from Torah and mitzvot and had merited returning to their Father. Each of these boys, they averred, was a descendant of a prominent, world-renowned tzaddik.
I had the chills as I gazed at these young men. The merit of their ancestors stood by them, bringing them back to the path of Judaism. But Torah is never a given. It does not automatically pass through the bloodstream from father to son. Every generation must pursue it on their own, acquiring it by their own sweat and toil.
What a person does inherit, after he has exerted himself in acquiring Torah knowledge, is the assistance of his righteous fathers. These three boys were a case in point. Until they took the first step of doing teshuvah, their fathers’ merits were ineffective. Once they made that daring move, returning to Torah and faith, their fathers’ merits surely helped them see blessing in their endeavors.
A Curse Laid to Rest
When I was once in Venezuela, a woman came to me, asking for a berachah. She was devastated, relating that many family members had died young, rachmana litzlan. Those who survived were very worried about their fate.
I sank deep in thought. After a few moments, I asked her whether her family was by any chance Kohanim.
“Yes,” she replied.
“If that is the case, you are likely descendants of Eli Hakohen, who were cursed by Elkanah Hanavi, and later, by Shmuel Hanavi, that they would die in their prime.”
The woman was filled with dread, mortally afraid for the rest of her family. I gave her instructions for a tikkun. Baruch Hashem, from then on, this tragic form of death stopped visiting her family.
Reports of this episode spread quickly. It proved that the words of Tanach are true and relevant in our day and age.
The Picture of Purity
When I was in New York, a Jew named Menachem T., who prayed at the Yad Avraham Beit Hakeneset, approached me, asking for a blessing for his sick father.
This story took place before Menachem was a ba’al teshuvah. His clothing attested to his detachment from all things Jewish. Nevertheless, I told him, “The fact that you came to ask for a berachah from a rabbi proves that you are a believer. It is up to you now to take that belief to the next level, strengthening your faith and knowledge of Judaism.”
I asked, “Were your parents mitzvah-observant?”
“No,” he replied, adding, “I’m not completely certain, but I am pretty sure that there were never mitzvah observers in our family.”
I replied, “Someone who looks at you would have a hard time believing that you had a righteous grandfather. I want to ask you to do something. Go to your parents’ house and look through their albums. Find a picture of your grandfather. If he had a beard and payot, it is a sign from Heaven that his merit will stand by you. If this weren’t the case, you would not have approached me to begin with. This might also be a sign that you should become a ba’al teshuvah, thereby bringing merit to your father, for a complete recovery.”
Menachem continued, “As far as I know, there were no religious Jews in my family. It is difficult to imagine that my grandfather had a beard and payot.”
“What can you lose? Please do as I ask and see what you come up with.”
Menachem’s parents lived in Netanya. He took a plane and flew over the Atlantic, in search of the picture. He rifled through their albums, until, to his utter surprise, he came upon the image of a distinguished-looking man, adorned with a full beard and payot.
Menachem studied the picture. On the back, he read one word, “Menachem.” He immediately approached his father, asking him whose picture this was.
“This was my father, of blessed memory, after whom you are named.”
At that very moment, something stirred in Menachem’s heart. The spark of Judaism, contained in every Jewish soul, was fanned into the fire of teshuvah.
After some time, when Menachem’s father began noticing the change in his son, he told him, “I can now leave this world in peace, for I know that there is someone who will say Kaddish for me.”
The man passed away that same day.
As long as the son did not do teshuvah, restoring to the family its rightful birthright, the father battled his illness, amidst tremendous suffering. His soul refused to leave its earthly abode. Once the father saw that he was leaving his family’s heritage in good hands, his soul was calmed, and he was able to rest in peace.
