English Blog

My wife went out one night this week, which meant I was running the show alone. No backup, no reprieve. Just me, eight kids, and … bedtime.

We’re spending our summer in the mountains, which means the kids are outdoors from morning to night, soaking up every glorious ounce of freedom. So just rounding them up and getting them into the house proved a herculean task!

I managed to get the triplets settled with a story and a few bribes—success! At least, I thought it was a success until the next morning, when one said to my wife, “Can you get a new Tatty? I don’t like this one! He’s mean. He puts us to bed too early.” Oops. 

Next up: my 9-year-old. 

“Tatty,” she said sweetly. “You have to lie with me.” 

Of course, I agreed. That’s what fathers do.

So I lay beside her, we whispered for a few minutes, and after lying quietly for another minute or two, I gently rolled out of bed and tiptoed toward the door, feeling pleased at getting another one off to sleep. Or so I thought. 

Before I was even halfway across the (small!) room, Musya leapt up like a jack-in-the-box.

“No! You can’t leave!”

“Why not?” I asked, startled.

“Because I didn’t fall asleep yet. You can’t leave until I’m sleeping!”

So back I went.

Five minutes later, she was quiet again, breathing softly, surely asleep.

I slid out of bed as stealthily as I could, barely making a sound.

But then—BOOM—up she popped. “You left again! I felt it!”

And so I went back. Again. This time, I was so careful to be quiet and motionless that somewhere in the process I actually fell asleep myself!

I had no idea how much time had passed, but when I eventually crept out, I was convinced this time was the one …

How wrong I was! She popped up again like a bolt of lightning. “You still can’t leave! I haven’t fallen asleep yet!”

“This is crazy!” I thought to myself. 

When I asked my wife about it later, she said, “Oh, yeah, that happens every night. She always insists one of us stays until she’s sleeping.”

The cycle continued. I stayed. I waited. I tried to escape. She felt it. Back again.

Eventually, finally, she fell asleep. And I was free.

Later that night, when the rest of the kids were asleep and the house was quiet, I started thinking about what lesson I might uncover from this very long bedtime experience.

What did Musya really want? 

She didn’t need to chat. She wasn’t asking for a story or a song or a snack.

She just needed me to be there. She needed my presence.

And really, that’s all we ever want, too.

We may be adults, but we’re also still children—children of Hashem. And just like Musya begged me not to leave, we beg Hashem to stay close.

“Don’t leave me, don’t disappear,” we beseech Him. “Be with me in my pain, in this confusion, in the quiet moments before I fall asleep.”

And at this time of year, we feel that yearning all the more acutely. 

We’re currently in the annual three-week period of mourning for the destruction of the Holy Temple—one of the most painful times in our collective history. 

G-d’s home, the place we were closest to him, ransacked and set afire … our people exiled in chains. And 2,000 years later, we still await the rebuilding of the Temple, the Final Redemption, and our return from exile. 

But we haven’t forgotten or become distracted. We know what we want! Presence. Specifically, the Divine presence. We want G-d to hug us and be with us. We want to lie close to him and feel the security of his presence. We don’t want to feel that he’s tiptoeing away … that’s when we jump up and beg, “Don’t leave! Stay with us. Hold us. Reassure us. Soothe our pain. We want to be near you.” 

And, unlike me, he is not trying to tiptoe away. He wants to stay with us. We just need to ask Him: “Tatty … don’t leave.” And He won’t. Ever.

This week, I had one of those Divinely inspired moments. The kind where you hear angels humming in the background and you think, “OMG. This is a message straight from Hashem!”

What happened? I met a young man, and only a few minutes into our conversation I realized he would be perfect for my niece. He was sweet, refined, intelligent, and articulate, and I was sold.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Really, rabbi? That fast?”

But yes. That fast.

Although I was meeting this young man for the first time, I know his family extremely well.

His parents? Wonderful. In fact, I studied with his father in yeshiva 30 years ago and I know he has a heart of gold - a genuinely nice person. 

His grandparents? Incredible people. Tzaddikim. I’ve known them for so long, they've even worked in our Chabad center. 

His siblings? I know them too! I could write their résumés myself.

And as for my niece, I know her like the back of my hand. I’ve watched her grow up. She’s beautiful, smart, kind, thoughtful, loyal - someone who deserves only the best.

And suddenly, here he was right in front of me.

I was sure they were perfect for each other! They have similar personalities, they think the same way, they share the same values, and I knew the families would get along fabulously. Truly, a match made in heaven. 

My mind raced and I could see it all so clearly. A delightful first date followed quickly by a second, third, and fourth. I knew they would connect quickly and deeply. 

I could already picture the poignant chuppah, electric dancing, and the unrestrained joy of two beautiful families celebrating the union of their children with dozens of friends streaming in to dance and wish mazal tov. I’d even mentally started organizing the seating chart! 

“Thank you, Hashem,” I thought. “You dropped this shidduch right into my lap. Bringing people together is such a rare and precious mitzvah, and you made this one so easy!” 

So, I sprang into action and called my niece’s parents. “I have a shidduch,” I declared, with so much enthusiasm.

I sang the family’s praises, told them how amazing this young man’s background is. Sure, I don’t know him personally, but that’s what due diligence is for, right?

They were excited and on board, so I called the boy’s parents. 

I cleared my throat, channeling my inner matchmaker, and said, “I have a great suggestion for your son. I think he and my niece would be perfect together.”

There was a long pause, and then they said, “Oh … that’s very sweet of you. He actually got engaged last week. The wedding is in a few weeks.”

Now, that is indeed a problem for my niece.

“Ah, just a small technicality then,” I quipped as we hung up. 

And just like that, my wedding fantasies, guest lists, and seating charts crumpled in an instant.

So close, but so … already taken.

Even though nothing had happened beyond a phone call, my disappointment came on strong. But as I thought about it, I realized that’s just the work of the Yetzer Hara—the evil inclination. 

Every single one of us was once part of a whole soul. We lived blissfully in heaven, perfectly united. And then one day, Hashem looked at us and said, “I’m going to split you into two - half will descend as a male, and the other half as a female.”

And so, the soul split.

Ever since then, we walk the earth as half a person, searching for our other half. We look, and we hope, and we try - longing for that moment of reunion. And when we do finally marry, our souls rejoice on a cosmic level. We’re whole again.

This isn’t a metaphor. It’s real.

But here’s the thing: It doesn’t happen on its own. We have to make the effort. We have to try.

And trying means sometimes - or often - failing. But if we don’t try? We’ll definitely fail.

So don’t stop suggesting. Don’t stop setting people up. Don’t stop believing that every person has their other half out there somewhere - waiting to be found.

You never know which idea might just be the one that leads to a lifetime of happiness.

As for me? I’ll be ready next time - phone in hand, dancing shoes polished - just in case the next Divine spotlight really does lead to a wedding.