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I had just gotten home and was finally sitting down when my phone buzzed. A rabbi in New Jersey had forwarded me a picture of an Israeli passport with the text: "Found this passport on the streets of Manhattan. Does anybody know this person?"

I looked at the picture and almost fell off my chair. I knew exactly who it was! It was Dvir!

I immediately called the rabbi who had forwarded me the message. "I know this guy!" I said.

He laughed and replied, "I don't actually have the passport. I just forwarded it from another WhatsApp group."

The passport had already taken on a life of its own, bouncing from one WhatsApp group to another, hoping that eventually someone would recognize the owner.

I tried to call Dvir to let him know. No answer.

I called again. Still nothing.

Maybe he saw my name and thought, "Uh-oh ... the rabbi is fundraising again!" and decided to let it go to voicemail. Who knows.

But I knew that Dvir flies from Israel to New York for business every week, almost always returning home on Thursday evening. And it was now Thursday afternoon, which meant he was probably already on his way to the airport.

Since I couldn’t get hold of Dvir, I called Jack, the CFO of his company.

"Jack," I said, "I think I know where Dvir's passport is."

"What do you mean? His passport is missing?"

"He probably doesn't even know yet," I replied. "But trust me, you need to go and get it."

I gave Jack the phone number of the man who had found the passport. What happened next was pure and visible Divine Providence: The finder of the passport and Jack were just blocks away from each other in Manhattan!

Within minutes, they met, Jack grabbed the passport and raced to Dvir before he reached the airport, and handed it to him.

Dvir boarded his flight to Israel completely unaware of how close he had come to disaster, thank G-d and thanks to a highly networked group of rabbis on Whatsapp!

Whew!

Later, I realized that there’s a deeper lesson here.

For several hours, Dvir had a significant, life-disrupting problem. He would’ve been stuck, unable to get back to Israel.

And yet, he wasn't anxious. He didn’t panic.

Because he didn’t even know! While he calmly continued toward the airport, other people were already solving the problem for him.

And while we may not have lost our passports, the same goes for the rest of us. How much time do we spend overwhelmed by our worries? We worry about our health, our children, our finances, our future, the security situation in Israel, the state of the Jewish people worldwide, natural disasters … the list is unending.

But just because we don't see the solution doesn't mean there isn't one. Long before we become aware of the problem, Hashem has already begun arranging the solution.

Our job isn't to carry the weight of the entire world on our shoulders; it’s simply to do our best, say another prayer, take another step forward—and trust that Hashem is already holding the passport we think we've lost.

Last Shabbat, I got into a massive argument at the holiest site on earth — right at the foot of the Western Wall.

Because of a quirk in the Jewish calendar, Jews outside of Israel have been one Torah portion behind Israel for weeks. In Israel, Shavuot is celebrated for one day; outside of Israel, for two. But because Shavuot this year fell on Friday and Shabbat, that one extra day threw the Torah reading schedule out of sync for weeks.

The long-awaited "catch-up" Shabbat finally arrived. Outside of Israel, we would read a double portion, Chukat–Balak, while in Israel they would read only Balak. By the next week, we’d be back in sync.

There was just one problem: I was in Jerusalem that Shabbat, and halachically, I was still on “American time” and needed to hear Chukat–Balak.

My father was with me, visiting from South Africa. He had a yahrzeit and wanted to receive Maftir, so we walked down to the Kotel, where there are dozens of minyanim praying side by side at any given time.

We joined a minyan, and when it came time for the Torah reading, my father offered to read.

When I added, "I'd like to hear Chukat–Balak," everything changed.

The Israelis looked at me as if I had lost my mind. "We already read Chukat last week!"

"I know, but we Americans haven’t heard it yet," I countered. "I'll read it fast!"

"Why should everyone have to sit through it again? Tircha d'tzibbur!" they argued — the halachic principle that you don't unnecessarily burden a congregation. "Just read Balak. And make it quick."

"But those of us from outside Israel still need to hear Chukat!" I pleaded. "What does it bother you? Come on!"

And so, for several minutes, right there at the foot of the Western Wall — surrounded by soldiers, tourists, yeshiva students, families, and visitors from around the world — a passionate halachic battle raged over the burning question: Should we read one Torah portion or two?

Ultimately, I gave in and we read only Balak.

You might think I walked away upset, but actually I couldn't stop smiling.

Think about everything that's happening in the world right now. We have enemies threatening us from every direction. Iran could attack at any moment. Antisemitism is exploding across the globe. Politicians rise to power on platforms of hostility toward our people. The Jewish people have no shortage of real, existential things to fight about.

And what did a group of Jews choose to argue about, at the holiest place on earth, at one of the most turbulent moments in modern history?

Whether to read one parshah or two on Shabbat morning.

How beautiful is that?!

The world defines people by what consumes them. What occupies their conversations. What keeps them awake at night. And the Jewish people certainly care about the great issues of our generation. But underneath it all, after thousands of years, what still ignites our deepest passion is Torah.

We argue because we care. Our disagreements aren't signs of weakness. They're signs of love. You don't fight passionately over something you're indifferent to. A nation that argues about Torah is a nation that is still invested and in love.

And that gave me tremendous hope.

Because as long as Jews are still arguing about Torah, Torah is still shaping the Jews.

Empires have risen and fallen. Our enemies have come and gone. Babylon, Rome, and a hundred others who swore we wouldn't survive are footnotes in history books — while we're still standing at that Wall, debating the same Torah our grandparents debated, and their grandparents before them.

And that's the greatest miracle of all.

P.S. I still think we should have read Chukat!

On Wednesday morning, I opened the door to get out of my Uber and immediately closed it because a car was driving by. Annoyed, the other driver rolled down his window, and screamed: "Only the Jews act this way!"

For a moment, I felt the sting of an age-old hatred that has followed our people for thousands of years.

Then my mind returned to the night before, Tuesday night, in Israel, at our Belev Echad House.

Ambulances pulled up outside. Shuttles arrived from the hospital. Soldiers were helped out of wheelchairs, some needing help just to walk through the door.

Within an hour, close to one hundred wounded IDF soldiers filled the room, all injured fighting in Lebanon these past months.

Some had lost arms. Some had lost legs. Some had lost their eyesight. Some carried brain injuries no one could see.

This is what Jew hatred does. 

And yet the room wasn't heavy with grief. It was full of life.

Music. Laughter. Raffles. Friends teasing each other like nothing had ever happened to them. Smiles that had clearly fought through unbearable pain just to reach the surface.

There, with each other, for a few hours, they weren't patients or casualties. They were family.

No one stared. No one pitied. No one needed to explain anything,  because everyone in that room already understood.

Watching them, I understood something too: we have every reason to break. And somehow, we keep choosing to build. To smile. To take care of one another.

The man who screamed at me yesterday? Maybe he had a bad day. Or maybe he truly hates Jews. Who knows?

But I wish he could have seen what I saw the night before: a room full of young people who gave everything so that others could live in safety. Young men and women who do not think of themselves, but fight for freedom, for Israel, for Jews everywhere, and for all humanity! 

We have never been defined by those who hate us. And our answer to darkness has never been revenge. It has always been the Torah and its mitzvot!

Despite the pain, we dance. Despite the wounds, we laugh. Despite the hatred, we love.

We have just entered three weeks of mourning for the destruction of the Holy Temple. This period commemorates many tragedies in our history and many times others sought to destroy us. But we are still here, doing mitzvot and studying Torah. 

Despite every attempt to break us — the Jewish people will prevail. Am Yisrael Chai!

Walking back to my desk after a meeting this week, I noticed that my computer screen was blue and displaying the message: “Working on updates — 90% complete. Don't turn off your PC. This will take a while.”

It was a little unexpected, but not alarming. I took a picture and sent it to our tech person just to make sure, and he quickly sent back a reassuring text: “Looks normal, probably just a system update.”

Fair enough.

I sat down to wait. 

Then I noticed something highly alarming! The cursor was very clearly moving across the screen on its own.

My stomach dropped.

I grabbed my phone, recorded a video, and sent it off. Within seconds, my tech guy called me, his tone completely changed. “Something is very wrong! I’m logging in to your computer right now.” 

He connected remotely, watched for a few moments, and then shouted: “Someone is inside your computer!” 

This was not a virus or trojan. Somewhere in the world, a human hacker was sitting behind a keyboard, navigating my computer in real time while I sat just a few feet away.

My tech person was able to see everything the hacker was doing. He was opening files, accessing accounts, and then he began initiating a wire transfer for tens of thousands of dollars. 

“Turn off the computer! Now!” he yelled. 

I tried, but nothing happened. The hacker had locked me out of my own machine.

“Pull the plug!”

So I literally yanked the power cord out of the wall.

But it was too late.

In those final seconds before the screen went dark, the transfer had already gone through.

Within minutes I was on the phone with the bank, reporting wire fraud and praying the funds could be recovered.

What followed was a whirlwind of phone calls, emergency meetings, and paperwork. 

As Belev Echad has grown, we've become a larger target, and so we brought in cybersecurity professionals to completely rebuild and secure our network.

Later that day, a technician arrived and began investigating.

What he discovered was chilling.

The hacker had installed a hidden screen-sharing program that gave him complete access to my computer. Not only could he see everything, he could control everything.

Even more disturbing, he’d preemptively logged into my email account and blocked all emails, alerts, and notifications from my bank. 

So, as money moved out of accounts, I was oblivious. 

Then came the realization that sent a chill down my spine: For who knows how long, he had been watching me through my own camera. A stranger had a front-row seat to my office, my work, and my daily life!

As I came to terms with that, I realized that there’s a powerful lesson here. We all act differently when we know someone is watching, but really, the camera is always on. Hashem watches everything we do and say - every decision we make and every conversation we have. Because we don’t see him, it’s easy to forget he’s watching. But we should be going through our day and living our lives as if we’re always on display. 

The hacker taught me another lesson, too. He was patient and methodical. Instead of immediately stealing money, he took the time to set things up properly, silencing alerts, and slowly chipping away at our safeguards. 

The same thing can happen spiritually. Hashem constantly sends us alerts. An invitation to a minyan, a reminder to put on tefillin, an inspiring Torah class, an opportunity to help another Jew. 

But life is noisy. Distractions, excuses, and habits can filter out those alerts before we even notice them.

So be careful before you get into the habit of brushing off minyan or tefillin or the opportunity to do tzedakah. Those alerts are there for a reason - don’t miss out because you weren’t paying attention.

A few days ago, my wife sent out one of her regular emails; a standard update about the work we do.

A woman, I’ll call her Sarah, wrote back quickly: “Please stop emailing me. You and your scammer husband. Unsubscribe!”

I was confused. This wasn’t a stranger. I knew Sarah. We both did. We had helped her along on her Jewish journey a few years prior. She came to my Torah classes. She came to our shul. She came to our home for Shabbat. 

She had many questions and I answered them all with genuine patience, respect, and care. 

Then, about a year and a half ago, she disappeared.

As far as I’m aware, nothing happened to alienate her. We had no conversation or disagreement. She simply stopped coming, as she is entitled to do!

But now, out of the blue, she was responding angrily to us and calling me a scammer! I couldn’t get the words out of my head. 

A scammer? I never sold her anything, solicited a donation, or took a penny from her. So what exactly was the scam?

I puzzled over it for a while, and then I realized that wasn’t really the point. The point is that people don’t always see us as we see ourselves, and don’t always experience interactions the way we do. Sometimes they write entire stories about us in their minds. 

You can give someone your time, your energy, your heart, your hospitality, your friendship, but years later they may remember the relationship completely differently than you do.

And that's extremely painful.

This morning, I stood at the Ohel of the Lubavitcher Rebbe alongside tens of thousands of Jews marking the Rebbe's 32nd yahrtzeit.

What was I thinking of as I waited in line for my turn to pray and say a few words at the graveside? I was thinking about Sarah.

If there is one lesson the Rebbe taught the world, it is this: Love another Jew.

Not because they agree with you, appreciate you, or speak kindly about you. But simply because they are a Jew.

The Rebbe's love wasn't conditional and ours shouldn’t be either. 

The Rebbe taught us to look past the behavior and see the soul, the Divine spark. Sometimes it’s hidden behind frustration and anger, or even insults, but it’s there. 

So, strange as it may sound, I have no anger toward Sarah. 

Of course, I will honor her request and remove her from our mailing list. That's the easy part.

The harder task is the one the Rebbe taught us: to continue loving someone even after they have hurt or misunderstood you. To see their goodness even when they don’t see yours. To look at someone who has judged us unfairly and still say (and truly mean), “I want only good things for you.”

I don't know what happened in Sarah's life that made her stop coming, nor do I know what has colored her perceptions of me. And I may never know. 

But I do know that if she called tomorrow and needed help, I would help her. And if she showed up at my door for Shabbat, there would be a seat waiting for her.

But because that's what the Rebbe taught us.

A few weeks ago, someone named Farhad Mohammadi signed up for our email list.

Although our website is public and anyone can sign up, one of our staff members became concerned when she saw the name. 

Given everything happening in the world today, her imagination went into overdrive: Is a spy trying to spy on us? Maybe a terrorist is trying to learn the layout of our center and feeding Iran information? 

A few days later, something happened that raised even more concern.

The same Farhad Mohammadi signed up for one of our Torah classes.

Now the alarms really started going off. “Rabbi, this is the same Iranian guy. We should probably have extra security tonight. Who knows what could happen?” 

So I did what anyone would do.

I Googled him, but no luck. It’s quite a common name apparently!

So that night, I walked into the Torah class curious—and definitely a little concerned—to see who would show up. 

And within moments, all my assumptions and preconceived notions evaporated. 

Yes, he was Iranian. Very Iranian. But he was also Jewish. 

And suddenly, I realized our mistake: We saw he was Iranian and that’s all we saw. We stopped too soon.

Because, yes, his family is Iranian, and his background and culture are Iranian. But he is also a warm, sincere, thoughtful Jew, seeking connection and hungry for Torah study. 

Unfortunately, that’s what the world teaches us. To look at the exterior. To focus on names, race, color, nationality. 

The Torah, on the other hand, teaches us to look at souls. Chassidus teaches that every Jew possesses a Divine soul—a chelek Eloka mima'al mamash, an actual spark of G-dliness.

And while meeting Farhad brought this lesson to the fore, it applies to all of us. Everyone we meet has layers. A name, accent, profession, political leaning. Most of us never look beyond the outer layers. 

We get so caught up in who is right-leaning and who is left-leaning politically, who is pleasant and who is grumpy, who is wealthy and who is poor. But Chassidus teaches us to keep digging. Look deeper, further, peel back the layers and uncover the core. 

Because at the core, every Jew is the apple of Hashem’s eye—created in His image and more loved than anything else in the world. 

So let’s challenge ourselves to stop defining people by the first thing we notice about them and train ourselves to see what G-d sees. 

Because if you look only at the surface, you may see an Iranian. But if you look deeply enough, you will discover a warm Jew.

Last week I attended the protests against Mayor Mamdani at Gracie Mansion. I brought my tefillin because when Jews gather, no matter the occasion and regardless of their political leanings, there’s an opportunity for souls to connect and mitzvot to be done.

To get into the demonstration, I had to pass through security. The line was long and chaotic, so I set up shop and started putting on tefillin with anyone who stopped and expressed interest.

Nearby, members of Neturei Karta and other groups were counter-protesting loudly - anti-Israel and pro-Mamdani. Security was tight, emotions were running high, and police were everywhere, making sure things didn’t get out of control.

When it was my turn to pass through security, the guard looked at me carefully, taking in my obviously chassidic look: black hat, jacket, beard, tefillin bag.

He was puzzled, unsure whether or not to let me through.

He pointed toward the Neturei Karta and asked, “Are you with them? Or are you here for the demonstration?”

My mouth hung open and I realized that to him, we all look the same. He doesn’t know the difference between Chabad and Neturei Karta. He doesn’t know that my father and brother both served in the Israeli army. He doesn’t know that I’ve spent much of my life advocating for Israel and that I am the founder of Belev Echad, an organization that exists solely to support wounded IDF soldiers!

To him, I am simply a chassidic Jew in a black hat who could belong on either side of the conflict.

Before I could answer, his boss - who knows me from events we’ve organized for Belev Echad - walked over and said, “Oh, this rabbi is fine. Let him in.”

I proceeded to the demonstration, but the whole interaction stayed on my mind for the rest of the week.

We spend so much energy defining ourselves by what separates us from one another.

This Jew is more observant; that Jew is less so.

This Jew is left-wing; that Jew is right-wing.

This Jew wears a wig; that Jew wears a scarf.

This Jew wears a black hat; that Jew wears a baseball cap.

But the rest of the world doesn't distinguish. Certainly our enemies don’t!

And while that can be a frightening thought, it can also be comforting. It means that a Jew is a Jew is a Jew. The labels are superficial; underneath we have a shared soul, shared destiny, shared purpose. We all stood at Mount Sinai together, every single Jewish soul that has ever or will ever exist, united “like one individual with a single heart.”

It’s so easy to get bogged down by the external minutiae and forget that at our core, we are a single unit. I’m grateful to that security guard who accidentally gave me a vital reminder!

As I walked away from that checkpoint, carrying my tefillin, I thought to myself: Maybe the greatest protest we can stage today is against Jewish division.

We can disagree, debate, argue passionately, and serve G-d differently. But we should never forget that before anything else, we are family, and the best answer we can give when asked, “Which side are you on?” is “I’m on the side of the Jewish people.”

Two weeks ago, I woke up, opened my eyes, and felt like the entire room was spinning. The ceiling was moving, the floor was shifting, and the walls felt like they were collapsing around me.

I closed my eyes and opened them again, but the spinning continued. Nausea flooded through me.

 I woke my wife. “Shevy,” I whispered. “The room is spinning.”

I assumed it would pass quickly. Maybe I was dehydrated or perhaps I’d gotten up too quickly. I lay back down and waited for it to stop.

It only got worse.

For the next two weeks, I was plagued by dizziness. I could hardly walk or get out of bed. Even standing felt impossible. I davened lying down and put on tefillin in bed.

I never thought about how much of my day-to-day life depends on balance until that balance completely evaporated, leaving me unable to function in any way, shape, or form.

Eventually, an ENT doctor diagnosed me with vertigo—a tiny disturbance in the inner ear that can wreak havoc on one’s world.

I had plenty of time to think as I lay in bed all those long days, and I kept coming back to what the Baal Shem Tov teaches: everything we experience and observe in life provides a spiritual lesson for us to ponder and absorb.

So I began to wonder … what if the real vertigo isn't in the ear?

We live in a generation where people worship fame, wealth, status, power, and influence. We admire people simply because they are rich and famous. Meanwhile, the truly admirable people go unnoticed.

The mother who makes sure she raises her children with love and patience even though she’s overworked and exhausted gets zero applause. The simple Jew who gets up early every morning to go to shul before work does so without fanfare. Those who manage to remain kind despite immense struggles go without acknowledgement.

These people are all around us and we barely see them.

But Heaven does.

The Talmud tells a story of a rabbi’s son who experienced clinical death but was revived. When he awoke, his father asked, “What did you see?”

“I saw an upside-down world,” the son answered. “Those who were honored here were insignificant there, and those who were ignored here—they were exalted.”

“My son, you did not see an upside-down world,” the father explained. “You saw the world clearly, as it really is.”

I pondered this as I lay in my bed, the world spinning around me: What we consider reality is actually the distortion. We are the dizzy ones. Our generation has lost its spiritual equilibrium. We’ve become so intoxicated by money, image, ego, and public approval that we no longer know what truly matters.

But Torah stays steady and reminds us what is real. Shabbat. Kosher. Tefillin. Davening. Studying Torah. Honesty. Integrity. Kindness. Faith.

Lying there in bed, day after day, I felt as if G-d was whispering something to me:

“The world around you is dizzy. Don’t let yourself become dizzy with it.”

I recently became the victim of identity fraud. It started with my personal credit card. Then the Chabad credit card. Then PayPal.

Thousands of dollars of fraudulent charges on every platform. Things I would never buy in a million years.

Then my stockbroker called me asking if I had approved a $2,000 transaction. I hadn’t.

And then, at 4:00 in the morning, my Gmail account was compromised and it became clear that someone was trying to hack into my life piece by piece.

It became all-consuming. I spent days changing my passwords and then changing them again. I spent hours on the phone with multiple banks. I froze accounts. I reset all my authentication systems.

Ironically, some of the passwords I set up were so long and complicated that I struggled to remember them myself!

When I began to emerge from the chaos, I realized that there’s an important lesson here: If banks and emails and stock accounts need protection, how much more does the soul require safeguards?

Fraud isn’t limited to the financial realm. There’s spiritual fraud too. The yetzer hara worms its way in quietly, one step at a time, breaking through one railguard before moving on to the next. One bad influence. One compromise. One distraction.

It happens sneakily, subtly, until eventually we wake up one day and realize that we’ve been compromised. Our peace, our innocence, our clarity, our connection to G-d, have all been chiseled away at.

But just like my bank accounts and email addresses, Judaism gives us spiritual authentication.

When we set aside time each morning to pray and acknowledge G-d’s presence in our lives, we fortify ourselves.

When we attend a Torah class, we build another layer of protection.

When we light candles and observe Shabbat, we reinforce our safeguards.

With every mitzvah we do, every safeguard we set up, we are making priceless deposits into our spiritual bank account, which, unlike a physical one, can never be hacked.

This is how we set up the soul’s two-factor authentication and protect ourselves from becoming spiritually hacked by a world full of temptation.

Last week, I was preparing a Torah class about soulmates. I had my sources—Gemaras, Midrashim, Chassidic teachings—strewn open across the table:

And then I turned to AI for some help. Someone in my office had recently told me that Claude is more powerful than ChatGPT so I decided to give it a try.

“Can you give me Chassidic stories about soulmates?” I asked.

Within seconds, it produced three breathtaking stories. One about Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, another about Rabbi Elimelech of Lizhensk, and a third about Reb Zusha of Anipoli.

The stories had every element you look for in a Chassidic story. They were mystical, emotional, and profound.

But as I read them more carefully, a thought niggled at me. I grew up on Chassidic stories. I live with them. I tell them to my children before bed. I share them at my Shabbat table. I incorporate them in my sermons, classes, hospital rooms, and fundraising dinners. And yet somehow, all three of these stories were completely new to me.

So I typed back: “Are those real stories? Please don’t invent stories. I need them to be authentic.”

Claude responded immediately: ">“You’re absolutely right to push back on that. Those stories were not real. I fabricated them and falsely attributed them to great Chassidic masters.”

I stared at the screen, my mouth hanging open.

Then I tried again, asking for more stories, and again they were fabricated.

Losing patience, I snapped back: “Please stop lying and making up stories.”

“You are right to push back…”

That’s when I realized that yes, AI can produce words, even beautiful, touching words, but it cannot produce the one thing that actually matters: truth.

A Chassidic story isn’t “content.” The goal isn’t to make it as inspiring and emotional as possible. The whole point is that it’s real, it happened, and it has been passed down for generations.

A machine can imitate the components of a good story, but never the soul. And the whole reason those stories endure is because of the soul—the struggle, faith, tears, and holiness of those who lived it.

Sure, a machine can generate a sermon in five seconds, write poetry, compose prayers, tell stories. But no matter how far AI progresses, it will never know the human experience: a trembling soul, tears, a broken heart, struggle, faith, suffering.

People do not need more polished words. If ever there was a generation drowning in synthetic experiences, it is ours: Fake news, fake images, fake followers, fake branding, fake perfection, and now, fake inspiration.

We’re starving for honesty and authenticity, not perfection. We need a rabbi who has struggled, a spouse who messes up and learns to apologize, a friend who listens in a way that Claude can never emulate and tells it to us straight when we need it. We need parents who parent from the heart, and Jews who practice real, authentic Judaism.

That’s the challenge of our generation.

In a world where almost anything can be fabricated, do we have the courage to be real? To let our words come from the heart, even if they’re not perfect and polished? Only words that come from the heart, from the soul, from us, can leave a lasting impact on the world.

For the last 10 years, Jack has walked through the doors of our Chabad house once a year: on the High Holidays. That’s it. He’ll smile, shake hands, and then disappear for the next 12 months.

Until he chanced upon my teenage son and a group of his yeshiva friends who set up a small folding table outside our Chabad house every Friday afternoon, offering passersby the opportunity to put on tefillin.

 Jack, he said yes. Although the interaction was brief (he wrapped the tefillin, said Shema, and continued on with his day), something stayed with him.

So he came back the next Friday. And the Friday after that. It became a steady part of his week, anchoring him to something larger than himself.

Then the boys left for Israel to continue their studies and nobody else took over their Friday afternoon tefillin stand. If anyone else missed them, we don’t know, but Jack did. And he kept reaching out. Because once your soul tastes something real, it doesn't forget.

Sometimes I would go out specially, just to put on tefillin with him. Then Jack had an epiphany. “If I can't find the tefillin,” he decided, “then I'll become the one who brings them.” And so, with the help of our assistant rabbi, Rabbi Zalman Lew, Jack acquired his own pair of tefillin.

Now he isn’t limited to once a week or when he chances upon somebody with a pair who offers him the opportunity. Now he can put on tefillin, on his own, every single day, deepening his connection with Hashem.

When we launched our daily minyan this year, I asked Jack if he'd join us on Friday nights. He said yes, and hasn't missed a single one. He also attends Rabbi Lew's weekly Tuesday night Torah class, showing up just as faithfully.

Every Friday night when I see him in shul, I ask the same question: “Did you put on tefillin every day this week?”

And every week, without hesitation, he confirms: “Yes.”

My son and his friends thought they were helping people do a one-off mitzvah. They had no idea they were building a fire that would keep burning long after they were gone.

So often we have no idea of the lasting impact of our actions.

We think we invited someone for a one-off Shabbat meal. We may even forget about the visit entirely. But perhaps that person was so enamored with the experience that they started staying home on Friday nights instead of going out, maybe they started lighting Shabbat candles, or maybe they then invited someone else for Shabbat and kept the chain of inspiration going.

Nor do we see the lasting power of a kind and encouraging word. You never know what compliment will propel someone to overcome the next difficult thing that comes their way. Likewise, it’s easy to brush off a sharp word or sarcastic joke we make at another’s expense. What we don’t see is how that remark stays with them and shapes who they are and how they interact with the world.

Many people are quick to brush off the once-a-year Jews like Jack. But every time Jack came to High Holiday services, he was nourishing his soul and reviving his connection with the Creator. And after 10 years he was ready for the next step, tefillin, which led to becoming a regular at Friday night services … and who knows what’s next?

When it comes down to it, no mitzvah is small and no interaction is minimal. What we see is just the very beginning of what’s to come.

I was on the phone with a member of our Belev Echad team in Israel the other day, discussing the needs of our wounded soldiers, when a second call started coming in.

I glanced at my screen to see who was calling and I froze.

It was the wife of a billionaire, one of the most well-known women in America.

My mind raced and I politely wrapped up my call so I could pick up hers.

“Hi, Uriel,” she said.

Not “rabbi.” Not “Rabbi Vigler.” Just … Uriel. Wow! How did we get to first-name basis so fast? Amazing!

While I’ve never spoken to this woman directly before, we are definitely connected. She has hosted our Belev Echad wounded soldiers multiple times: they’ve sailed on her private yacht, been wined and dined by their private chef, and ridden in her husband’s Rolls-Royce.

I’ve sent her pictures and videos and thanked her multiple times by text, and tried calling her a few times without success.

So, we start chatting. She’s extremely warm and friendly, right off the bat. “This is it; this is how it happens,” I think. In my head, I’m already thinking maybe she is interested in purchasing two new rehabilitation centers for our wounded soldiers.

I’m waiting for it and then it comes: “Uriel, I’m working on a project in Jerusalem. It’s a brand new swimming pool and I’d love for you to donate.”

Well, there’s a plot twist I wasn’t expecting! But I recover quickly.

“Wow, I’m honored you thought of me. I could probably do $360. How’s that?”

Silence.

Not a good silence.

“Uriel … come on. The funds involved here are a lot more than that.”

Now I’m confused.

I say, “Just to clarify … you know who you’re calling, right? This is Rabbi Uriel Vigler. I am the founder of Chabad Israel Center and Belev Echad for wounded IDF soldiers.”

“Oh my G-d! I meant to call a different Uriel!”

Somewhere out there is another Uriel living a very different life. A life where billionaires call asking him for donations. Oh, the irony!

She’s apologizing profusely. I’m laughing. What else can you do?

Then I have an idea. “Listen,” I say, “it’s not a mistake that we ended up on the phone today. It’s Divine providence. We need funds for our wounded soldiers in Israel. Maybe you can support us?”

But she politely declined. “No, I can’t donate right now.”

Later, I tried to see the lesson in our exchange.

For a moment, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I saw her name on my phone and something inside me jumped. This is it. This is the call. A million dollars is about to come our way. I was already imagining everything we could accomplish. New rehabilitation centers, more soldiers helped, more lives changed.

I went from the highest high to the lowest low, but the truth is, none of it was real to begin with.

This is not a unique experience. We spend years chasing things that feel so real - money, success, comfort, recognition. But they are fleeting. Here today, gone tomorrow.

The only thing that is real and lasting and true is G-dliness. The only things we can truly own are Torah and mitzvot. Everything else can disappear in an instant.

Money, power, position, admiration, success - none of these belong to us. They are on loan.

Everything we have - and everything we don’t have - is exactly what Hashem has chosen for us.

We can’t control any of it. Not the faster line at the grocery store. Not the perfect deal. Not even the million-dollar donation.

The only things we can truly own - the things we can take with us into the World to Come - are the Torah we learn, the mitzvot we do, and the lives we touch. So that’s what we should focus on accumulating. Because when you have that, no one can take it away.

All our kids were home for Pesach, thank G-d, a real treat that doesn’t happen very often. The last time was six months ago!

Having a big family means that with everyone home comes plenty of noise and chaos. But overriding that is a sense of completeness that makes it all worthwhile.

Yom Tov was wonderful. Good food, interesting guests, some fighting, lots of laughter.

Then came Chol Hamoed. And in our family, Chol Hamoed trips always follow a very precise path: Wake up. Go daven. Learn something. Then I say, “Okay, everyone in the car, let’s go!” And everything falls apart.

“Where are we going?” they demand.

I say my classic line: “How about the zoo?” And there is an immediate and unanimous outcry. “Boring! We’ve been there a million times!”

So I turn to ChatGPT for ideas, and it delivers enough suggestions for a three-volume tourist guide. American Dream Mall. Boating. Museums. Hiking. Tourist attractions. Ideas for days.

But for every idea, half the kids are in, half the kids are out, and inevitably someone is personally offended that I even suggested it.

At this point, it’s 2:00 PM, and I pull out my last remaining parenting strategy: “Everyone get in the car, I’m taking you somewhere fun and I’m not telling you where.”

The younger ones come but the older ones look at me like, “Nice try. We’ve seen this trick before.”

But we go, we come back, and it’s fine. Repeat annually.

Trying to avoid a repeat, I came prepared this year. Three days of Chol Hamoed, three days of activities: Ziplining. Horseback riding. Maybe a shooting range.

The first day, I walked in confidently. “Everyone ready? We’re going ziplining.”

Silence.

Then one kid piped up, “I don’t want to go.” Then another and another. “I’m not going.” “Not interested.” “Sounds scary.” “Sounds boring.”

No problem, I thought, I’ll substitute tomorrow’s plan.

“Okay! Backup plan—horseback riding!” I announced.

Same response. “No.” “Nope.” “Absolutely not.”

So I go back to my old reliable option, the zoo, and predictably, am met with a perfect choir of nos.

And now, despite my best efforts and pre-planning, we’re back where we always are: 1:00 PM Chol Hamoed with no consensus and no direction. Ideas are being thrown around rapid fire and being shot down just as quickly.

After going in circles for two hours, one kid says, “Why don’t we just go back to the place we went last year?”

Chelsea Piers, bowling, laser tag. It wasn’t new or exciting, but it elicited the most interest of any suggestion thus far.

So we went. We bowled. We played laser tag—boys vs. girls. (It was very competitive. I will not disclose the results for the sake of shalom bayit.)

Then, later that night, we went to an escape room. Also not new. Also something we did last year. Also amazing.

The next morning, we were back at it. “What are we doing today?” I braced myself for the onslaught. But then one of the kids said, “Why don’t we just go back?” So we did. And the next day as well.

Three days of bowling and laser tag at Chelsea Piers.

We live in a world obsessed with new. New trips. New experiences. New thrills. We think if it’s not new—it’s not exciting or important or valuable.

But these three days taught me something I didn’t expect: Joy doesn’t come from newness, it comes from presence. We did the same things each day, but the experience was different each time.

And I realized there’s an important lesson from my experience. We all agree that it’s important to be constantly growing and learning and increasing in our Jewish observance. But sometimes that translates to the assumption that we need to keep piling on new practices, which quickly becomes overwhelming and hard to sustain.

But there is value in repetition. Instead of committing to davening shacharit, mincha, and maariv every day, and then crashing after a week and dropping it all, commit to one—whichever one you feel you can sustain—for 30 days. Then increase it for another 30 days, and so on, until it becomes ingrained.

Or take a mitzvah you already do, and add more intention and spirituality to it. Say you already pray shacharit every morning, but you’re racing through the words mindlessly with your head already in your first meeting of the day. Instead of piling on more practices or prayers, slow down and focus on the words you’re already saying. It may feel less exciting, but that’s where the real growth and peace of mind happen.