What Lies Beneath The Water

What Lies Beneath the Water Last week was my wedding anniversary and I was fortunate enough to celebrate yet another year of marriage to my dear wife Miriam! To celebrate, we went for a quick getaway, and on the way we stopped at a small pond where there were many ducks swimming around as people stood on the banks and threw in food to them. As the ducks swam, I noticed a group of 5 small ducklings with their mother swimming alongside them wherever they went. (At least I assume it was their mother, although I suppose it may well have been their nanny. It was, after all, an upscale neighborhood). I love nature and animals and I was fascinated as I watched these ducks. I was mesmerized by how beautifully all of the ducks just sailed across the face of the water so smoothly and effortlessly. Their bodies were upright and non-moving as they glided all along the pond. And as the little ducklings scurried from place to place to feed off the generous humans standing outside the water, there was the mother following close by at all times. In my reverie, I suddenly noticed the webbed feet of the ducks beneath the water as they swam. In contrast to the smooth movements of the ducks’ bodies, their feet were in constant motion as they propelled themselves along the water. I was struck by the realization that, while what is observed by our eyes seems so smooth, the true catalyst for what is seen externally is all the action that is going on unobserved beneath the surface, obscured from view. Truth be told, the lesson from the ducks is an appropriate metaphor for many things in life. At this moment, the Olympics are taking place in Tokyo. I have always enjoyed tuning in to the Olympics and feel a sense of pride when I see an American standing on the podium after winning a gold medal. Invariably, there are numerous people who, when seeing gold medal winners basking in the glory of a win and gaining the adulation and admiration of their countrymen, feel a certain sense of jealousy. They too would love to be a celebrity and ink large deals endorsing products earning them fortunes of money. What they fail to ponder and internalize, however, is all of the work that went into getting them to that moment. All of the years spent waking up at the wee hours of the morning to go to practices and competitions. All of the thousands of hours spent practicing, over and over again. All of the failures and disappointments along the way. All of the relinquishing of self-interests and carefree times such as social events and late night parties. So much toil and effort was expended in order for that gold medal winner to arrive at that shining moment on the podium. Much like the duck who so gracefully sails across the silvery lake, beyond what is in view of everyone is all of the effort taking place out of sight beneath the surface to allow the duck to achieve that beautiful swim. In fact, this is axiomatic regarding practically everything in life. Whether in material matters, and most certainly in spiritual ones, there lies so much work behind the scenes which leads to the success stories which everyone sees with their eyes. I recall numerous times when my wife, upon seeing a very holy person, would remark, “I am so envious of that person’s spiritual stature!” And each time I would reply, “There is nothing to be envious of — you too can become like that. It just requires investing the same sacrifices and work that person did!” In truth, with regards to material pursuits, one can put in tremendous effort and still not be blessed with a successful outcome, but with regards to spiritual success, we are taught differently. The Talmud says, “If someone tells you they toiled but were not successful (in regards to spiritual growth and Torah learning), do not believe them.” Meaning, if one puts in effort into developing their relationship with G-d, it is an automatic that they will find the success they are seeking. And if they tell you they have not, “don’t believe them.” It means they did not put in enough toil towards that goal. You too can smoothly glide along in your spiritual growth – but not without the toil being put in beneath the surface. I will close by expressing my intense gratitude in honor of my anniversary to my wife Miriam, the “mother duck” of our family (and in fact to all of those heroic Jewish women) who is the backbone in producing and ensuring the survival of the next generation of our proud nation! Without you we would truly be lost and for that I say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you! Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Yosef Koval

Welcome Home JFX!

Welcome Home JFX! Our friend Moe Mernick tells of the time that he was flown in to be a guest speaker at a Shabbaton for a congregation in Calgary, Canada. His topic was how everything happens for a reason, and that even setbacks are in reality part of G-d’s master plan. He chose a sweet story to share with the audience about his family doctor from Toronto who was initially rejected from medical school, and how that turned out to be the best thing for him in the end. Unbeknownst to Moe, his doctor's wife had grown up in that very synagogue in Calgary! And as he was telling the story, in this synagogue, the doctor’s father-in-law was there in the audience! He took tremendous pleasure in hearing this personal story about his very own son-in-law. During our JFX Tisha B'av services on Sunday, I mentioned the story of the Jewish king Yehoash whose father, Amon, was a wicked, idolatrous king who allowed the Holy Temple in Jerusalem to fall into disrepair. Amon, was assassinated by his own palace guards, leaving Yehoash, the child, to inherit his father's throne. Eventually Yehoash began a campaign to refurbish the Holy Temple, and he made an incredible discovery: He found an ancient Torah scroll that was bookmarked at the portion of G-d's rebuke and admonition for trespassing the ways of the Torah. The young king intuitively felt that this was no coincidence, and that G-d was sending him a message to repent. Thus he began a remarkable spiritual renaissance campaign, nearly preventing the destruction of the Holy Temple. What is incredible about this story is that the young Yehoash saw the message of the scroll, and didn't dismiss it as a fluke, which would have made his life a whole lot easier. Instead he recognized the divine Hand of G-d, and courageously acted upon the message. Enter our new JFX building. The Talmud teaches us that the concept of beshert, "meant to be," applies not only to one's spouse, but even other things like one's house. They are also part of G-d's predetermined divine providence. G-d orchestrates and determines where and with whom we will spend our future lives well before the actual connections are made. I could literally write a small book with stories of how our new JFX building came to be a reality for us. With each step of the process, it felt like this was meant to be. From the people who didn't listen to the naysayers, and stepped in to support the purchase, to the people who assisted us with all of the details, our gratitude is huge and the divine presence was truly remarkable, from A-Z. Two weeks ago I spoke to Dave, the facilities manager from John Carroll University. He told me something incredible: When the college originally purchased the building in 2008, they planned on bulldozing the building and turning the entire 5.7 acres into one huge parking lot. Every time he wanted to make an update to the building, he was shot down by the administration and told that it doesn't pay to put money into the building because within 6 months they will bulldoze the building. For some reason, he has no idea why, every time they were going to bulldoze, it never went through for some reason or another. Then Covid came, and the college lost a lot of money due to decreased enrollment and they needed to sell the building quickly. At just the opportune time a developer put a bid on the building and we were given 4 days to match their offer or be left out in the dark. The urgency of this situation mobilized us to take action and pushed us to make the leap and put in a counter bid. We literally did not have the luxury to rationally think about it. Had we done that, I don't think we really would have made this decision, which we now see and feel in retrospect was definitely the right move for us and for our community. I now believe that when the building was purchased and the cornerstone was installed, well before most of us were born, God was already paving the way for us and preparing the building as the future home for Torah, prayer and personal growth for our community. Our mystical tradition teaches us that all synagogues operate as divine embassies of the Holy Land, and in the future, when the Messiah comes, they will all be transported to the land of Israel as part of the redemption process. This has clearly been in the works for a while! Next year in Jerusalem in our new JFX home! Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Koval

Making Sense of The Senseless

Making Sense of the Senseless The Surfside tragedy has been on my mind, and now Tisha b’Av is coming up on Sunday, July 18. Tisha b’av, the 9th day of the Hebrew month of Av, is a day historically marked by Jewish tragedy. As a nation, we mourn and "sit shiva" for the loss of our holy Temple in Jerusalem. It’s also the anniversary of an astonishing collection of national calamities. 3333 years ago on this day, the Jews cried after the spies reported that Israel was a hostile, impenetrable Land. 2607 years ago on this day, the First Holy Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians. 1951 years ago on this day, the Second Holy Temple was destroyed by the Romans. 925 years ago on this day, the First Crusade was declared, which wiped out 10,000 Jews. 731 years ago on this day, the Jews were expelled from England. 529 year ago on this day, the Jews were expelled from the Iberian Peninsula. 107 years ago, Germany declared war on Russia, sparking the First, and eventually leading to the Second World War. 79 years ago on this day, deportations from the Warsaw Ghetto to Treblinka began. 16 years ago today, the borders of Gush Katif, Israel were sealed as Jews were forced to evacuate Jews from their homes in Israel for the first time in history. This chilling list reminds us that it's a national and historical day of tragedy and mourning. Many follow the guidelines of shiva. We sit on low chairs, do not make small talk, and focus on the loss. We also fast, refraining from both food and drink until nightfall. We sing special hymns and poems that lament the loss and destruction (join us at JFX - see flyer above). We pray that our Temple may be rebuilt soon, in our holy city, Jerusalem, that our nation unite in peace and brotherhood, and that we may know no more sorrow. Although the tragedy did not take place on Tisha b’av, Surfside feels like it’s in the spirit of the season. The collapse of the Champlain Towers condo complex was the third in a bizarre series of accidents that severely impacted the Jewish community: first, the Meron tragedy this past May, where Jews who had gathered to celebrate the holiday of Lag ba-Omer were crushed by the crowds, and where 45 people died, with many more injured and traumatized. Second, the collapse of a bleachers in the Chassidic community of Karlin-Stolin in Israel shortly thereafter, killing two people and injuring dozens. And now, the collapse of the Surfside, Florida building, where the number of dead has not yet been confirmed because so many are still unaccounted for, making it impossible for many to even mourn their loved ones properly. Some have tried to make sense of the tragedies, noting the macabre common denominator of people being crushed to death. I opt for another angle: I cannot make sense of it at all. It is scary, it is seemingly senseless, it is frightening for the very reason that it could have happened to anyone. I’ve been in large scary crowds. I considered going to Meron many times, although I never actually made it. I even vacationed in Surfside this past February, in a condo complex one block away from Champlain Towers. No, it does not make any sense. Not to my feeble human brain. See, in order to go about our lives, we rely on the law of probability. The probability is that I won’t get into a car accident today. The probability is that even if I get Covid, I won’t die. The probability is that my plane will arrive at its destination and I will be safe. And then strange, grotesque things happen that shake up our sense of security and stability. We start to ask, “Why is this happening?” and “Could it happen again?” and “Could it have been prevented?” Our brains want desperately to make sense of tragedy, to reclaim the control of probabilities. But the truth is, no matter how many boxes we tick off of “things we could have done,” we can’t manage every eventuality. Only God runs the world. That reality is perhaps the most frightening of all. Tisha b’av reminds us that tragedy has been part of the fabric of Jewish history. On it, and every single day of the year, we pray for better times. For peace, for stability, for health, for happiness. Amen, may it be so. Shabbat Shalom, Ruchi

A Real Champion

A Real Champion I would like to take this opportunity to wish a warm and hearty mazel tov to one Joey Chestnut for his prestigious accomplishment! If you do not know who Mr. Chestnut is, he is a “competitive eater” (yes, that is a real title) who was once again the winner of the annual July 4th Nathan’s hot dog eating contest. This year Joey heroically managed to wolf down 76 hot dogs with buns in a mere 10 minutes to defend his crown and beat his record of 75 hot dogs which he set last year. (My personal opinion is a person should eat dairy for a full year after eating that many hot dogs as opposed to only 6 hours like me!) Truly amazing! My stomach hurts just writing these words! In a world devoid of enough heroes, we are blessed to have Joey Chestnut as a beacon of greatness and a symbol of American pride. As a kid, the quintessential things that made up America were baseball, Chevrolet, and apple pie. Items such as those symbolized “America” in a nutshell. Now, I find myself increasingly musing each year that “competitive eating” and the Nathan’s hot dog eating contest on July 4th are the present day examples of what symbolizes our modern-day America. Sadly, over the past several decades the country has tragically descended further and further into moral decay and an emphasis on decadence. A contest such as this one is the paragon of what is, in the current milieu, revered and cheered and seems, in my eyes at least, to be a perfect way of summing up our once proud country in the present day. Seeing the news of Mr. Chestnut’s “achievement” I remarked to my brother that I wonder if his parents have “nachas” from his feats. In fairness, I suppose the same feelings can be said about athletes who are revered as heroes simply because they play a child’s game better than anyone else but, perhaps because I have been a sports fan all my life, I have a predisposed prejudice towards looking at those people’s accomplishments in a slightly more favorable light. Anyway, my brother told me of a story he once heard from Rabbi Frand, a well-known rabbi in Baltimore, about a fellow who – like Joey – won competitive eating contests. Upon being interviewed after one of his “victories,” this fellow said that his only regret was that his father was no longer alive because he would have been so proud of him had he been around to witness the victory. He told of a difficult relationship he had with his father growing up and how his father would call him a “loser” and that he would never amount to anything. Now, more than ever, this champ pined to show his father that he did in fact amount to something and that he was indeed successful and not at all a “loser.” Putting aside the sympathy I have for someone who was clearly damaged by his father as a child, I could not help but be amused by the thought that this person wished his father could be alive to see him win a competitive eating contest, and furthermore that such a victory would validate his self worth and elevate him from the ranks of a “loser” to that of a “champion.” I can only imagine my own parents' reaction had I called them to share the news. “Mom! Dad! You’ll never believe it! I just won a trophy for eating dozens of hot dogs in just a few minutes! Aren’t you so proud? Hello? Mom? Dad? Are you there? Helllooo?” *dialtone* In contrast to the aforementioned people, this past Tuesday my son, Tzvi, became a bar mitzvah. On that morning I took him to synagogue for his first time as an “adult” and he put on his new tefillin. We then had a celebratory breakfast for him with friends and family at the local bagel store. At the meal I spoke to him about my hopes and aspirations for him as he makes the transition into becoming a full-fledged, card-carrying member of the Chosen People. Not surprisingly, not one of those hopes expressed a desire for him to ever become a competitive eating champ. Instead we spoke about what the purpose of life is and what our role in this world is, particularly as it pertains to being a Jew. I mentioned that this week’s Torah portion discusses the various encampments the Jewish people stayed at in the 40 years they spent in the desert. Our Sages teach us that each of these travels were in fact moments of growth for our nation in the spiritual realm. Some of that growth came as lessons learned the hard way through misfortune due to sins that we committed in those places, while others were steps taken through positive experiences we accomplished while encamped in a particular place. Furthermore, our Sages teach that each and every individual has a journey they embark upon called ”life” which contains many different stops. Some of these “stops” are age-related milestones such as a bar mitzvah, while others are events that occur like a wedding or birth of a child. Sometimes the journey takes us through hardships, like the loss of a job or a loved one, while others are moments of pure joy, but all of these experiences are there to assist in shaping us into who we hope to be. The main thing to prioritize as we begin our journey (or continue it for those of us who are already older) is to understand what exactly our mission is. Why were we put into this world and how can we best progress to fulfill that purpose? Once we have that in focus then we can begin to tackle how to attain that goal. Thus, my blessing to Tzvi as he embarks on a new leg in his own special journey was that he should come to a clear understanding of what G-d wants from him - why He placed him in this world, and how he can set out to achieve that purpose and to use this new “stop” as a time for growth. As Jews we learn that our purpose in this world is to achieve a connection to G-d through the study of the Torah and observance of His commandments. This blessing was for Tzvi but is aptly applicable to all of us as well. So while my Tzvi, or any of my children for that matter, will hopefully never call me to tell me they have won a competitive eating contest, I know they will become great nonetheless, each in their own way. I will try my best as a parent to point them in the right direction and I hope and pray they will use their G-d given talents to fulfill their individual potentials. Because if Tzvi, or any of us, works towards achieving the goal of our journey, then we can proudly hold up our heads high at the end of our respective journey and carry the title of “Champion.” Now, I must go watch the Competitive Watching Paint Dry Contest in which people compete to see who can watch paint dry for the longest amount of time. I just need to grill up a hot dog or two (or 76) so I have something to eat while I am doing that! Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Yosef Koval

My Walking Partner

My Walking Partner MAZEL TOV! JFX finally has its own permanent home. Thank G-d, we were able to purchase the John Carroll Green Rd. Annex building as our new space! This week on Monday, I flew to Cincinnati for a bris. It was a wonderful trip. The flight was out of Burke Lakefront Airport on a small, comfortable jet, without any security line. We left first thing in the morning, and everything was enjoyable and convenient. There was a rental car waiting for me at the airport, and I had plenty of time before the bris for a study session at the Cincinnati community Kollel. The bris itself went well. The crowd was Jewish but largely unaffiliated, and I felt like I was in my element, doing my best to make the ceremony meaningful. I really enjoyed meeting and connecting with the people there. I spent the next few hours answering emails and attending an important zoom meeting before heading back to the private Cincinnati airport. It was a very productive day, and I felt good about myself. As instructed by the airline, I arrived at the airport at 4:30, as the gates to the plane were scheduled to close at 4:50, followed by takeoff. So, I pulled my rental car up to the Enterprise office, went to the front door, and found it locked with a sign directing customers to drop their keys into the nearby dropbox, which I promptly did. Only then did I realize that I was at the wrong location, still a mile away from the Ultimate Air terminal. (Apparently this was the old Enterprise location.) The problem was that my keys were locked in the box, no one was around, and I had no phone number to call for help. So in the 92° heat, wearing my formal attire and schlepping multiple bags and boxes, I started marching down what seemed like the never ending yellow brick road, all the way to the airline terminal, racing against the clock, wondering what I would do if the plane left without me. Thank G-d, the plane left a few minutes late, and I made the flight. The entire 20-minute experience should have been a very distressing one for me, and normally such a story would have put me into panic mode. But strangely, I actually felt a calming, almost divine feeling throughout the ordeal. I felt like Hashem was guiding me throughout the process, and all would be well. Strangely, I actually even enjoyed the entire experience. Looking back, I felt that G-d was teaching me a message: to appreciate the fact that He has my back, not to become arrogant about my successful day, but to stay grateful and humble for His divine blessings throughout my day, wherever I may roam. I also felt that the entire day was a metaphor for the past 10 months, as it relates to our purchase of the John Carroll annex building.Throughout the entire process, it felt like there was sort of an invisible Hand guiding us, especially the past few months. From the moment that we were told on a Thursday in March that someone else put a bid on the building and we had until Monday to either match their bid, or find a new place to rent by the end of the month, until yesterday when we finally were able to close on the property, everything in between felt almost surreal. We never planned or budgeted to purchase our own building, but clearly Hashem had other plans for us. At first we felt overwhelmed with the notion of raising millions of dollars, and the initial meetings were met with a sense of defeatism. Then, one of our members called me and said we need a “can-do” attitude. He offered a generous pledge and challenged a friend to match him. That’s how the campaign began. Thank G-d, we have already raised over $2 million in pledges and are hopeful and optimistic that we will raise all the needed funds to create the perfect space for our JFX community. We are excited to fill the building with vibrant Jewish learning, with Mussar and Mini Mussar classes, Tot Shabbats, Young Professionals events, and Jews of all ages loving and living Torah lessons and values. We are grateful to Hashem and to all those who believed in us and are helping us with us new endeavor and are excited for this historic opportunity for our community. See, every long road has an end, whether in Cincinnati, Cleveland or anywhere. God is always walking beside you, lighting your path, even if it's hard to see in the moment! Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Koval

The Castle Hill Effect

The Castle Hill Effect “Castle Hill'' were the magical words of my childhood. For years, my family and I rented a small bungalow in what we called a “bungalow colony” in the Catskill Mountains in New York State—one colony of many populated by Jews living in “the city” (Brooklyn and Queens) and seeking to escape to, literally, greener pastures. All winter long I dreamed of Castle Hill. There, we swam every day in the freezing cold pool, chattering and shivering as the sun began to set. There, we barbecued every Sunday, when all the dads, who joined us for Shabbat and headed back to city life for the workweek, could grill us their famous hot dogs and burgers, along with cold fizzy drinks and drippy watermelon, cut into huge chunks. There, we learned to ride bikes, along with the cuts and scrapes that accompanied the rite of passage called “time-to-take-off-the-training-wheels!” There, my uncles played endless games of backgammon and played guitar while my aunts and mother chatted and needlepointed, while us kids ran around with abandon. Castle Hill had a castle. I have no idea what this castle was for. Google is keeping its secrets. As kids, we made up story after story of princes and princesses, of haunted places and scary spirits. The colony used the castle as its sort-of main house, where the counselors of our day camp slept (I guess they weren’t spooked) and where you could buy ice cream and treats in a little snack bar. At some point the castle was condemned by the Board of Health, or some such agency, its windows boarded up and its stairways roped off. Every now and then, the trucks would roll up. There was “Mom’s Kosher Knishes From Woodbourne!” as the driver would holler over his megaphone, over and over on repeat. There was Murray’s “sock truck,” which would appear selling socks, toys, and all kinds of novelty items. Also: yarmulkes, challah covers, nose plugs, and long skirts. But mostly, we lived a pretty simple life at Castle Hill. Dinners without the dads were kid-friendly affairs taken outdoors, with lots of grilled cheese sandwiches, which we were only too thrilled to enjoy. But Shabbat at Castle Hill was special. On Friday, we’d clean up real nice. Everyone came out of their bungalows on Friday afternoon all sparkly with damp hair and shiny eyes. The daddies were home. Our tiny bungalows were transformed into ballrooms for Shabbat. We’d have our aunts, uncles and cousins over for Shabbat meals, dining like kings in the simple spaces. Since Shabbat was late, and I was young, I’d be sent off to bed which was literally one room over from the dining room, drifting off to dreamland to the comforting sounds of Shabbat chatter so close by. And then, the September when I was six years old, my father died. We had just gotten back from Castle Hill a short while before. Little did I know it would be the last summer of Castle Hill with my father. And the next summer, my mother was preparing for her second marriage to my stepfather, a man from Cincinnati who had come to Cleveland to learn at Telshe Yeshiva and later attended medical school here. We would be moving to Cleveland. There would be no more Castle Hill. I tried to get back to this near-mythical land of my childhood many times. My aunts, uncles and cousins still went, and I used any opportunity to be there, to drink in those halcyon, uncomplicated days. But the older I got the less entrancing it seemed, the smaller the bungalows, the more run down it all appeared. Can we ever go back in time? Every year as summer approaches I think of the days of Castle Hill. I’ve always wanted to give my children the summers I had as a kid, and in a way, raising them here in Cleveland, in suburban, safe, green spaces, is doing just that. But as nostalgia would have it, it’s not the same. The older we get, the less halcyon life seems. It’s hard to think that today’s bumps and scrapes will be tomorrow’s nostalgia, but I already know this to be true. Today, as summer approaches, I am consumed with the trauma of Covid, of Meron, of the unrest in Israel. I am sad, scared, and helpless. Can today’s complex moments really be tomorrow’s fond memories? I can’t even look at photos of people in masks without feeling that familiar pit in my stomach and welling of tears in my eyes. The year we’ve been through has been hellish on a number of levels. Never in my life have I experienced the fear of the unknown as I have in the past 14 months. It’s very possible that 24-hour access to digital information exacerbates that—I’ll own it—but it’s objectively been an unprecedented ride for those of us who have not lived through wartime. One memory: I am in my bedroom, talking on the phone with my sister-in-law, as she describes to me her real, raw fear that my brother-in-law will not survive the day. And yet. I am nostalgic, already, about the beginning of Covid, when my family prayed together every Shabbat morning because synagogues were universally closed, bar none. We reminisce, this soon, about the delight of going out to pick up a prescription, because you were “going somewhere,” not to mention the joy of being selected to take out the trash. And, concomitantly, I think we all have post-traumatic stress from the low times. The fear, the tears, the losses, the dread. Summer is coming again, and the Castle Hill of my youth is forty years in the past. It’s mixed up with the death of my father and my abbreviated time in that burnished bubble. The Year From Hell is barely a year old. The good memories and the bad, they’re all mixed up together. I wonder if my mother remembers Castle Hill the way I do. And I wonder how my children will remember Covid. No one knows. Time has a way of shaping perceptions into something that takes on a life of its own. But one thing is for sure: perspective, my friends. Gam zeh ya‘avor. This too, shall pass. It always does; it always will. And maybe, just maybe, it will even take on a certain halcyon sheen one day. Shabbat Shalom, Ruchi

Spinout on the 80!

Spinout on the 80! We had been cruising along for 4 hours on the I-80 last week from Cleveland to NY, when all of a sudden the skies overhead burst open, and a torrential rain began to descend. I’m talking about the kind in which the windshield wipers can’t keep up with the rain, even on the highest setting. I began to hit the brakes in order to slow down in the heavy downpour, and as I did, the car began to hydroplane and started skidding from the left lane that we were in towards the right lane. Frantically, I tried to control the wheel, but it was like driving on ice. The car continued its spin through the right lane and hit the guardrail on the side of the highway at 70 mph. The car continued its revolution and we began driving backwards down the highway (as I described it later, we were traveling eastbound on the 80 but we were facing westbound!). Still trying to regain control of the car, we crossed back through the right lane and then through the left lane, colliding with the guardrail on the left side. After what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only several seconds, we came to a rest on the shoulder. Why I was on the highway in the first place? Allow me to elaborate. When I was growing up, my amazing parents opened their home to numerous guests who were in need of a place to stay. Some visitors were there for a day or two, others for a weekend, some for a holiday and others that stayed long-term and came back repeatedly. My parents truly embodied the spirit and lessons of Abraham and Sarah in opening their doors and extending hospitality to all who needed. In addition to the more transient guests, there were also some who, for all intents and purposes, became full-fledged members of our family. While not undergoing any formal process, they were essentially foster children for a number of years and we considered (and consider them even to this day) as our siblings. One “brother" of mine – Dovid - came from Iran at the tender age of 10, and remained with us until he married and started his own home. (A cute story with Dovid occurred at a family bar mitzvah, when my Great Aunt Pearl – who was never one to hold her tongue – saw my brothers and me together with Dovid. Dovid, with his dark middle-eastern complexion, looked every bit like an Iranian native. Aunt Pearl remarked loudly as she pointed to each of us, “Well this one looks like Murray (my father) and this one looks like Beverly (my mother) but who does this one look like? He doesn’t look like anyone!” (Cringe!) Another foster brother of mine was Gabor, an impish redhead who came from Hungary at the age of 16 to experience a Passover in America at an Orthodox home, and ended up staying with us until he too got married and settled in Montreal. Well, a few weeks ago Gabor was marrying off his daughter to a fellow from England and, due to Covid, elected to make the wedding in New York. My brother and I decided that we would travel in for the wedding, knowing how meaningful to Gabor and his wife and daughter. Even though we had both done a significant amount of traveling recently, and would have preferred to just stay home, we decided it was too important and was worth the effort and expense entailed. So, with the blessings of our wives, we left Cleveland in my car hoping to arrive at the wedding in time for the smorgasbord reception before the chuppah. The trip was pleasant and uneventful... until the aforementioned crash occurred. Extremely shaken, but, miraculously, physically unharmed, my brother and I looked at each other and each of us asked if the other one was OK (that’s just the type of guys we are). We also simultaneously and wryly remarked that our getting to the wedding in time for the smorgasbord just suffered a major setback (that’s also the type of guys we are!) After a quick scan of our respective bodies we saw that we both were completely fine, without as much as a single scratch, bump or even bruise. Other than our yarmulkes flying off our heads during the hellish spinout, and his cup of coffee splattering on his shirt, we were 100% fine. Despite the fact that there were plenty of cars and trucks on the road at the time, during those few seconds that we were zigzagging across the highway twice like an out-of-control bumper car, there were none coming up behind us at that time. Had there been, I probably would not be sitting here writing this article. We got out of the car to examine the damage and saw that it was smashed up pretty badly, but it did look like it could be driven, at least for a short distance. One major concern we had was that the front bumper was smashed up and hanging. Considering we were in the middle of Pennsylvania, and nowhere near an exit, we hoping to try and drive it to a shop. Concerned the bumper may fall off en route, we looked in my trunk to see if there was anything I could use to attach it. Fortunately I had kept some elastic bands in my trunk from when I was doing therapy on my injured shoulder and we did our best MacGyver impression as we jerry rigged the bumper with a bright neon green band to keep it from falling off. Cautiously, I started the car and eased it back onto the highway. I had no power steering and the wheel was pulling towards the left but I was able to drive it. We drove about 20 miles until I saw an exit and got off. By an act of Divine Providence there was a truck service station right off the exit and they directed me to a car repair shop a mere mile down the road. I drove to the shop where I explained what happened. The mechanic took a look at the car and told me it was not safe to drive. Being 3 hours from NY and 4 hours from Cleveland, I called Enterprise and requested a rental. Considering it was just before Memorial Day, they were all out of cars – except for one! The rental agency was 30 minutes away, but instead of having to wait that long for someone to get us, the lady told us they had a driver dropping off a customer in our vicinity (which, mind you, was in the middle of nowhere) and that he would be there sooner to pick us up. I called insurance to file a claim, and before I was even done with the call, the driver picked us up and we headed to the agency to get a rental. We arrived at Enterprise just ahead of 5 different customers who walked in after us, so we were taken care of immediately. Sure enough, the agent took care of our paperwork and brought us out to the one car they had. Somehow, from the time we crashed until we were settled in the rental car, only an hour and a quarter had passed. I marveled at the amount of “hashgacha” – Divine Providence – we had experienced at every turn. It was now 5 o’clock and we realized that we could still make it to the wedding for the majority of the affair. My brother asked me if we should just turn back and head home, as it had been a pretty harrowing experience, and Gabor was sure to understand if we didn’t come considering what we had been through. But I felt that we should forge on and go to the wedding, provided my brother was on board to do so. The Torah teaches that people involved in the performance of a mitzvah will not suffer harm. Looking back and realizing that, aside from the damage to my car, we had both witnessed such incredible Divine protection and assistance, I was convinced it was only due to the fact that we were on our way to perform a mitzvah. As such, I felt it appropriate to continue on that mission. We indeed drove on and walked into the wedding just as the chuppah was beginning. We were one of only a handful of close friends that Gabor had and we danced up a storm and joined in him with his joyous occasion. He was overflowing with gratitude to us for coming and could not stop thanking us. It was so gratifying for us to hear that and validated our decisions we made, both initially as well as post-crash. At midnight we got into the car and headed back home through the night. Fortunately the ride home was fast and uneventful and, other than the fact that I am still in a rental and need to find a replacement car (a daunting task I am finding out in this current used car market!), the saga of that day has passed and life returned to normal. My purpose in writing about this is twofold. One, to publicly thank G-d for the miracle He performed for us in protecting us from any form of injury or worse. Two, to show the power of performing G-d’s commandments and the assurances of the Torah. When we are promised with an extra layer of protection during mitzvah performance it is an insurance well worth “buying” and we should keep it in mind when confronted with the opportunity to do a mitzvah. Aside from the fact that is the correct thing to do, it may very well save our own lives! In the meantime, if you know of any good deals on a car, I am all ears (preferably one that doesn’t have a neon green rubber band on the bumper)! Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Yosef Koval