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This Sunday marks 31 years since the physical passing of the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

As I do every year, I’ll be visiting the Rebbe’s Ohel in Queens with 50,000 of my fellow Jews. I’ll wait in line for four hours, in the heat and humidity, just to have one minute at the Rebbe’s holy resting place. And every second of that wait will be worth it.

Because that minute isn’t just a visit: It’s fuel.

I miss the Rebbe every day. We all do. We miss his eyes, his smile, the warmth and caring in his voice, his guidance, his love, his fiery drive to do more, be more, reach more.

It’s been 31 long years but his mission remains vibrant and alive. It burns in our hearts, propelling us forward through life. 

Every single morning, I wake up with the drive to carry out the Rebbe’s primary instruction: “Get the world ready for Moshiach.”

As a shliach, I am a soldier in the most powerful army to ever exist: the Rebbe’s army.

I am one of 5,000 shluchim, stationed in cities, suburbs, villages, islands, and war zones, each charged with the same mission: To ignite Jewish souls, to awaken Jewish pride, and to bring light to the darkest places on earth.

It is the greatest privilege of my life.

What does it mean to be a shliach? Here’s a glance into the past week:

A woman called me, sobbing. “Rabbi, my father passed away. His last wish was to be buried in Israel, but with Iranian missiles falling and travel locked down, I don’t think it’s possible.” I reached out to my WhatsApp group of fellow shluchim. A rabbi connected me to a contact in Europe, and somehow, through Frankfurt and with tense delays, her father made it to Israel.

On Wednesday, she called me in tears: “We did it. He was buried in Jerusalem, just like he wanted. I watched the funeral on Zoom. Thank you, Rabbi. Thank you so much.”

In the same week: A man needed his mezuzot checked. A woman bought her husband his first pair of tefillin. A grandfather called to choose a Jewish name for his newborn granddaughter. A family asked to kasher their kitchen. I sent my 13-year-old son — his first solo mitzvah mission — and he did an amazing job.

Next week, I’ll officiate a wedding in Mexico, setting up the couple to build a new Jewish home with love, joy, and strength.

What gives me the energy to do this week after week, year after year? The Rebbe.

It’s also the Rebbe’s teachings that gave me the strength to calm my daughter, who was stuck in Israel during the recent missile attacks.“Eretz Yisrael is the safest place on earth,” the Rebbe reassured us countless times. So I remained calm — and that calm gave her strength.

It’s the Rebbe’s inspiration that fuels my Torah classes, many of which are now on YouTube, reaching Jews far and wide. And it’s the Rebbe vision that inspired me to compile all my blogs into a book which came out this week and is now in stores all over New York, illuminating the city that never sleeps. 

It’s also what inspires our work with over 2,000 wounded IDF soldiers. This week, some of them lost their homes in the war, but we were there with food packages, practical assistance, and of course, endless love and support.

The Rebbe taught us: Every Jew matters. Every Jew is our responsibility.

That is why I do what I do.

So in honor of the Rebbe’s yahrzeit, go out and do something.

Put on tefillin and inspire someone else to put on tefillin as well. Light Shabbat candles and inspire someone else to light them too. Give tzedakah. Say Shema with your kids. Call someone who feels forgotten. Visit someone who could use a pick-me-up. Invite someone for Shabbat. Help a soldier. Learn some Torah. Do one more mitzvah — any mitzvah — in honor of the Rebbe today.

This is how we bring Moshiach, when we will be reunited with the Rebbe and all our loved ones. May it happen immediately.

My daughter finished her year of seminary this week and was supposed to fly back on Tuesday and spend a few days at home before jetting off to Texas to run a Chabad day camp there.

She’d said her goodbyes, packed her bags, and was excited to come home, eat her favorite foods, hang out with her family, and adjust to being back stateside.

But with Israel launching Operation Rising Lions to save itself from a nuclear attack, all flights in and out of the country have been canceled.

So now, instead of preparing for the camp in Texas that begins on Sunday, my daughter is stuck. Grounded in the Holy Land.

Nearly every hour, she calls me with a fresh escape plan. She’s like a one-woman Mossad escape unit.

“Tatty! What if I take a boat to Cyprus?”
“Maybe I’ll cross into Egypt and fly out from there?”
“I heard people are flying from Amman, Jordan!”
“Tatty, I found a guy who knows a guy who knows a camel … ”

And honestly, I get it. She has my DNA. I also wouldn’t be able to sit still. I’d be on full-on shpilkes, pacing up and down the hallway, trying to book flights, buses, camels … whatever it takes.

And she’s not alone.

Tens of thousands of people are stuck in both directions. While thousands are trying to leave Israel, thousands more are trying to enter. There’s something uniquely Jewish about the coordinated chaos going on!

But at moments like these, when WhatsApp groups are exploding with flight hacks, border updates, “Someone heard from a cousin of a friend who managed to leave through Greece,” and “Tatty, do you think I can ride a bike to Istanbul,” we have to stop and remember: We are not in control.

There is only one pilot in this crazy journey, and it’s not El Al.

It’s G-d.

He and He alone knows exactly where we’re supposed to be, when we’re supposed to get there, and whether it involves four layovers, a border checkpoint, lots of kosher snacks, or a camel ride.

And as desperate as she is to leave, it seems crystal clear that G-d wants my daughter to stay in Jerusalem right now. Why? That, we can’t know. Perhaps there was a spiritual task she was supposed to fulfill this year that she hasn’t yet completed. Perhaps someone there needs her. Perhaps she needs to go through this experience. And maybe, just maybe, Moshiach is coming today and she won’t need a flight at all! She’ll already be exactly where she needs to be.

So until then, we wait, we pray, we check the news, we refresh the airline app, we exchange memes, we stay in touch.

And we laugh, because sometimes, the only thing more unpredictable than war is a determined 19-year-old Jewish girl with Wi-Fi, a dream, and a now half-unpacked suitcase.

My heart is in Israel. My family is in Israel. My daughter is in Israel. She was supposed to fly home next week—but now Ben Gurion is shut down. This is not just another war. This is not just another news cycle. This is a moment that will be written in the blood and hope of our people, a moment that will echo through history for generations.

In an unprecedented operation, Israel struck deep inside Iran—the very nation that has vowed to wipe us off the map. The same Iran that, through its proxies, launched a brutal surprise attack on October 7th. The same Iran that has waged a 600-day war of terror and threatened to annihilate us with nuclear weapons.

And now? History is unfolding before our eyes. In a hundred years, students in colleges and schools will study this moment. They’ll learn how a nation surrounded by enemies, under constant threat, rose up and shook the world.

And while the headlines talk about fighter jets, Mossad agents embedded in Tehran, drones smuggled across borders, and nuclear reactors being destroyed… We’re talking about something else entirely. We’re talking about miracles. Because as missiles flew, as death hovered overhead, as the world held its breath—Hashem revealed Himself.

They’re calling it Operation Rousing Like a Lion. But it’s not just a military operation. It’s a fulfillment of ancient prophecy: “He crouches, he lies like a lion… who dares rouse him?” (Bamidbar 24:9)

For too long, the Jewish people have seemed asleep. Divided. Distracted. Disconnected. But the lion wasn’t gone. He was crouching. Waiting. And when the moment came, when we were pushed to the edge—we rose. And we rose like a lion.

You can slander us. You can fight us. But you can never, ever break us.

In the land of our ancestors, rabbis in Israel have made a heartbreaking call: Do not gather in synagogues this Shabbat. The threat of retaliation is too real. The risk is too great.

So now I turn to you. Wherever you are—Melbourne, Sydney, London, Paris,  Johannesburg, Toronto, Brooklyn and Los Angeles.

If Jews in Jerusalem cannot pray…Then you must pray in their place. If Tel Aviv is under siege, then the world must rise up in tefillah.

This is a cry from the soul of Israel. A thunderous, ancient roar that echoes across oceans and generations. And every Jew, everywhere, must answer.

•  Not leather and straps—eternity on your arm.
•  Not wax and flame—light in a world of darkness.
•  Not for ritual—for redemption. 

Let this Shabbat be louder than sirens. Let your prayers be fiercer than rockets. Let your unity shake the gates of Heaven. The lion has risen. Now rise with it.

As Bilaam prophesied: “A star will emerge from Jacob…” (Bamidbar 24:17)

Moshiach, come now.

On Shavuot, I rounded up my five youngest and headed to the park.

Now, if you're a parent, you get it. Five kids. On a holiday. Out in public. That’s not a trip — that’s a mission. There’s snacks, drama, sibling politics, and someone always needs the bathroom right now.

We had barely left the house when — boom! — my youngest triplet, Y., whacked his brother D. Full-on punch to the back.

. Who knows. Maybe D. dared to walk ahead. Maybe he took Y.’s water bottle. Maybe he breathed too loud. Either way, the meltdown came fast and furious.

D., rightfully furious, turned bright red. “I’m going home!” he yelled, and made a beeline toward First Avenue — toward the street. Two women nearby gasped. “He’s going into traffic!” they shouted.

.”

I caught up with D., sat down on some nearby steps, held him and asked, “Do you want to go home or do you want to go to the park?”

“I want to go home.”

“If you go home, we all have to go home,” I explained. “I can’t send some of you to the park and some of you home.”

But he insisted: “I want to go home.”

At that moment, his older sister stepped in. “D.,” she said, “If you let us go to the park, I’ll let you ride my scooter.”

And that’s all it took. We headed back toward the park, D. happily riding his sister’s scooter, crisis averted, and we spent the afternoon happily playing on the playground.

Honestly, that kind of thing happens all the time and is quickly forgotten. What stayed with me is what happened the next day.

The following morning, the day after Shavuot, I saw Y. and D. getting ready for their day. Not only were they getting along, Y. had made D. breakfast! Completely unprompted. No apology speech, no drama, no therapy session. Just a quiet, humble act of love.

And I thought: what an incredible parable.

We all mess up. We all have our “Yehuda moments” — when we snap, when we hit (maybe not physically, but emotionally), when we push someone away over something small. But what defines us isn’t the mistake. It’s the morning after.

What do we do once the storm has passed? Do we hold grudges? Do we double down in our pride? Or do we make breakfast?

Children have this magical ability to reset. To forgive. To repair.

If this had happened between adults, we’d be talking about years of therapy, resentment, and tension. But that’s the beauty of children—the incredible ability to forgive and move on. Something we can all learn from.

Jack* is a hotshot big-city lawyer. You know the type—the one who has the biggest firm, takes the most profitable cases, and charges the most per hour.

We’ve been in touch by email since November, when he attended our Belev Echad gala. He was enamored with the evening, but we didn’t have a chance to say more than a quick hello since there were 1,200 people there!

Then, he offered to treat our soldiers to dinner at a restaurant one night, which finally gave us a chance to really talk. He was thrilled to get to know our soldiers better and we bonded throughout the evening. It was the perfect opportunity to put on tefillin with him, except it was nighttime and tefillin is a daytime-only mitzvah.

I wanted to meet again during the day, but the opportunity never arose—I was busy, he was busy … we couldn’t seem to coordinate.

Then, I visited another of our wounded soldiers who was recovering from surgery in a local hotel, bringing my tefillin along. When he asked if he could keep my tefillin for the duration of his time in NYC, I happily agreed.

Straight from there, I headed to a Midtown meeting with Amir, a friend and real estate developer. I walked in, and lo and behold, who was sitting there? Jack!

Finally, we were in the same place at the same time and it was daytime—perfect tefillin conditions! But with one significant problem: I had just given my tefillin away.

I turned to Shimon* and asked, “Shimon, do you have tefillin in your office by any chance?”

“Rabbi,” he said, “remember a few months ago one of my workers came to your office for tefillin? The ones you gave him are right here!”

Problem solved.

I asked Jack to put on tefillin and he readily agreed.

“Is it your first time?” I asked.

“Nope, it’s my second!”

“What? When was your first?”

“A month ago, I was flying from Florida to NY and found myself sitting next to a Chabad rabbi. He’s a rabbi in a small town with fewer than 300 Jews. For three hours we talked, and at that point I couldn’t refuse—so I agreed to put on tefillin for the first time in my life.

I smiled and helped Jack put on tefillin for the second time, but a small part of me couldn’t avoid feeling disappointed.

Doing any mitzvah for the first time is a special moment—but tefillin has its own significance. A person who has never put on tefillin in his life has the spiritual status of “karkafta”—which affects their soul in the afterlife. So helping someone put tefillin on for the first time gives me the honor and merit of lifting them out of that status.

But every mitzvah is important and valuable, and I was happy to be able to put tefillin on with Jack a second time and hope there will be many more times in his future.

Now, it’s true that as a rabbi I’m always on the lookout for Jews to do mitzvahs with—tefillin, Shabbat candles, shul, etc. But you don’t need to be a rabbi to reach out to others. Take your tefillin with you—to the office, on a road trip, on vacation … anywhere you might bump into other Jews. Take them out and offer to help people put them on—you’ll be pleasantly surprised how many people say yes and how enriching the encounter is.

It seems G-d was looking out for me, because the following Sunday, at a breakfast with some of our wounded soldiers, I met an 82-year-old man who had never put on tefillin in his life. Of course, I whipped out a pair and we had a spontaneous and joyous celebration—his “bar mitzvah.”

In my head, I whispered: Thank you, G-d, for giving me the opportunity to light up a Jewish soul for the very first time.

*Names changed to protect privacy. 

Just before Pesach, I found a building inspector—uninvited and unexpected—standing outside our Chabad House. 

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to look calm.

“We’ve received 35 complaints about your building in the last 12 hours,” he informed me.

Thirty-five?! I was astounded. 

Had someone created a group chat called “Let’s Report the Rabbi”? My mind raced as I tried to think what I could have done that was so egregious. 

“What exactly is the complaint?”

“Apparently, you’re doing construction without a permit.”

“Construction?” I said. “We’re changing a few windows—not building the Third Beis Hamikdash! We checked, no permit needed!”

He shrugged. 

“Also ... there’s a lot of garbage outside.”

Ah. Now things were starting to crystallize. 

“Sir,” I replied, “Passover is about to begin. Of course there’s garbage! We’re purging every crumb of chametz and doing a general deep clean at the same time. We’re tossing broken chairs, that weird table with only three legs, and those random items that keep being moved from place to place but never actually get used.”

Apparently, bureaucracy doesn’t account for spiritual debris, and we were slapped with three violations. We now have an upcoming court hearing where I have to explain to a New York judge why Jews clean so aggressively before a holiday that happened 3,000 years ago.

But somewhere between the mess of paperwork I now have to deal with and my passive-aggressive neighbors, I had a realization: this is human nature. 

People like to complain. It’s human nature. All of us: New Yorkers, Upper East Siders, Jews … We share our complaints like family heirlooms. We see something annoying, we snap a picture and send it around with six exclamation marks or a two-minute voice note. 

But what if we turned that energy around? What if, instead of reporting us for putting out extra garbage for a few days, all those people had “Look how hard this Chabad House is working to prepare for Passover. Good for them!” 

Unrealistic? Probably. But as we head into Shavuot, I can’t help but think about the way the Torah was given to us. We gathered at Mount Sinai, so deeply united, Rashi explains we were like one individual with a single shared heart. 

Not 35 hearts firing off complaint forms.

Shavuot is not just about cheesecake and blintzes and late-night learning (as enjoyable as they are!). It’s about Torah and unity and giving others the benefit of the doubt. 

As much as this whole episode has been a headache, it’s also been a good reminder for me. To pause when something seems off. To ask before assuming. To compliment before complaining. To remember that I never know what someone else is going through. Maybe they’re not doing illegal construction; maybe they’re just trying to make their home ready for the Divine.

So yes, we got 35 complaints. But I’m hoping that next time we get 35 blessings. And in the meantime, I’ll be the first one out there searching for opportunities to bless others. 

My daughter called me from Jerusalem. “You won’t believe what happened.”

“What?”

“I was on my daily walk, without my phone or my watch, just enjoying the fresh air, when suddenly the air-raid sirens sounded. But I wasn’t near my regular bomb shelter!”

She paused and then explained: “A few weeks ago, I was thinking about this exact scenario. What if the sirens go off while I’m out walking? What will I do? And today it happened.”

So what did she do? She ran to the nearest building and sat on the first staircase she could find. She waited there, alone, for six long minutes. The most chilling part? She told me the story like it was a normal, everyday occurrence.

Missiles being fired at civilians. People sprinting for cover. Strangers hiding in stairwells. There’s nothing normal about it! But when it happens day after day, week after week, we adjust. It becomes our normal.

We get used to walking around under threat, and we go about our lives without thinking about it too much. Until something comes along and shakes us out of our fog.

Something like what happened last night, when an antisemite casually walked up to a Jewish event in Washington D.C. and executed two Israelis at point-blank range in cold blood.

This didn’t happen in Tel Aviv or Sderot or even Paris. It was the US capital, Washington, D.C. The country that is supposed to be the safest in the world, with the most powerful army and most capable police force. Here, two Jews, a young couple simply attending an event, were hunted down and killed.

Make no mistake, our enemies are everywhere. Their hatred knows no borders—it’s not limited to Gaza, London, Paris, or Jerusalem. Right outside my own home here in NYC, there’s a “Free Palestine” flag flying!

We’re being battered on all sides, and it’s brutal.

But what can—and should—we actually do?

First and foremost, we remember who we are and respond accordingly. We are proud Jews—proud of our heritage, our history, our lives, and our country.

The world doesn’t need less Judaism. It needs more!

So we don’t hide and cower in fear. We hold our heads high, and walk around openly and proudly declaring our faith.

We fill the world with light. More kindness. More Torah. More mitzvot. More Shabbat. More kosher. More tefillin. More shul. More tzedakah.

This is not a time to shrink or hold back. It’s time to shine, to plant ourselves here and say: We’re not going anywhere! You can’t scare us off. We have a task. G-d wants us to elevate the world and prepare it for Moshiach’s coming. And that’s exactly what we’ll do.

May he come speedily and return all our hostages, bringing true peace to every corner of the world.

Last week, we had a Belev Echad trip to Miami for our wounded soldiers. I flew in for the inspiring event and stayed overnight.

When I boarded the plane the following day, I walked down to row 31 and saw someone sitting in what I believed to be my seat. I asked him to move, and he said no, it was his seat. 

I was surprised, but it turned out he was correct. I always use the same travel agent and he knows my preferences. I hate flying and am quite fidgety, so I always request an aisle seat. Somehow, this time, I’d ended up in a window seat. 

I texted my travel agent. “Why am I not in the aisle?” 

“There was no space on the flight,” he explained. 

“I would rather not fly if I’m not in the aisle.” 

“What’s the issue?” he asked. “Who are you sitting next to?”

Well, sitting next to me was a 2-year-old girl, and next to her, in the aisle seat, was the father. 

I asked the dad, “Do you want to switch with me?”

But like me, he replied, “If I don’t sit on the aisle I don’t get on the plane.” 

So for three hours back to New York, I sat next to this girl who screamed and cried the entire way. Her ears must have been hurting, because she cried extra loudly during take-off and landing. They had come prepared with a million snacks, all of which landed on me. First it was her pretzels, then her chocolate milk, then her potato chips, her Cheerios and apple juice! All over my seat, all over my clothes. 

And she kept kicking, pushing, and shoving into me, stuck as I was in the window seat, like a prisoner, at the mercy of her surprisingly strong fists and legs. 

When I finally got home, I told my wife the story and she told me, “Well, now you know how people feel when we travel with our 8 kids!”

And she’s not wrong. Last Shabbat, our kids were playing in the backyard. Our 7-year-old had a tantrum and one of the neighbors opened his window and yelled out, “Shut up!” Another neighbor screamed, “Go inside!” 

Well, I guess at least now we know how they feel. 

Typically, we love ourselves and don’t see our own faults. Or we see them, but we justify them. When someone else does the same thing, however, it bothers us and we become critical. 

Somehow, I was quick to criticize my neighbors on the airplane, but full of understanding and excuses for my own children. 

We’re currently celebrating the holiday of Lag Baomer, whose overall theme is to love our fellow Jews as we love ourselves. That means overlooking their faults or finding favorable explanations for their behavior, just as we do for ourselves. It means having patience when other people’s children act out, the same way we excuse our own. It doesn’t come naturally, but Lag Baomer reminds us that that is our goal.

This week, I met Arik Shkarov, 43, an IDF soldier who serves in an undercover unit in the motorcycle division of the Israeli police. 

While chasing a terrorist on March 17, 2024, he was run over by a truck. Arik was severely injured, and despite months of surgeries and treatments, his right leg had to be amputated. Even after the amputation, Arik remained in indescribable pain. He tried everything the doctors in Israel had to offer but reached a dead end.

Our Belev Echad team, along with our medical director, met him and recommended surgery in the US. We have worked extensively to forge relationships with the best doctors in NYC who can treat complicated cases like these, and this week, Arik underwent surgery under their care. 

Before the surgery, he called me to his hotel room because he wanted to put on tefillin. He also asked if he could keep the tefillin for the duration of his time in NY, so he would be able to put them on daily.  Of course, I agreed. On the day he was injured, he told me, he had put on tefillin, and he feels it was this act that saved his life. 

With G-d’s help, the procedure will allow Arik to walk with his prosthetic without pain and to live a normal life with his wife and kids.

Needless to say, the amount of work it took to make this happen was tremendous, and the costs staggering. 

But when I met Arik, he was so incredibly thankful. He couldn't find the words to describe his immense gratitude and appreciation for what we had arranged.

I am so grateful to G-d for giving me and my wife the opportunity to establish Belev Echad, and for the merit of being able to alleviate the pain of so many soldiers. Arik is now the 6th soldier to undergo surgery with us after reaching a dead end with medical care in Israel. 

There are another two soldiers here in NYC this week for procedures to alleviate nerve pain that cannot be treated in Israel. Arik, Imri, and Ori—three separate soldiers with three separate stories. They don't even know each other!

I am in awe of our tireless crew. We’ve all worked so hard these last few months to put these procedures in motion. We hired a medical director to help the soldiers navigate it all. Our on-the-ground staff has taken care of every detail. The fundraising efforts were intense.

But seeing how much Arik is looking forward to resuming a regular life without pain made it all worthwhile! 

After all, what price can we put on easing a soldier's pain? A soldier who gave his all for Am Yisrael? A soldier who saved lives? A soldier who gave his leg to protect us? What is the price point? How much would we all be willing to pay if we were in intense pain like this? Surely, it is priceless!

As wonderful as our organization is, my greatest wish is that we will be able to shut down because there will be no more wounded soldiers! In the meantime, I feel fortunate and blessed to be able to help. 

The night Pesach ended, my wife decided to make sourdough bread for the kids to have for breakfast the next morning. We’d gotten rid of most of our chametz before Pesach, so we didn’t have much else in the house. And what’s better after 8 days of matzah than freshly baked bread?!

So my wife made the dough and set it aside to rise overnight. I had already gone to bed, so she texted me instructions for the morning, to ensure the bread would be ready by 7am.

Now, I normally stay far away from the kitchen—all I know how to cook is eggs! But she spelled it out so clearly, how could I go wrong?

When I woke up at 5am, I read her text message three times and followed it to a tee.

1. Take sourdough (x2) out of the fridge
2. Put onto counter with parchment paper (which is on the counter)
3. Cut a line into the dough (with the knife next to the paper)
4. Put into the blue pot on the counter with the paper under the bread  and put the lid on top (all on the counter)
5. Bake on 500 and press start
6. For one hour (100)

And that’s exactly what I did.

I even felt proud of myself—I got this! I’ll be the kids’ savior with fresh sourdough when they wake up at 7am. They will be so excited after a week of Pesach food.

With the baking underway, I hopped onto the Peloton for some exercise.

While cycling, I began to smell smoke coming from the kitchen and I wondered if something might be wrong. But then I patted myself on the back and said, “Believe in your wife and believe in yourself. You followed her instructions to a tee—it’s impossible that she made a mistake.” So I ignored the smell and cycled on.

The burning smell grew stronger, but again I reassured myself: Have faith! You did everything correctly; probably this is supposed to happen.

A few minutes later, my daughter woke up and came running to me. “Tatty, tatty! The whole house is full of smoke! What’s going on?". Turns out, she woke up from the smell!

So I jumped off the Peloton and ran to the kitchen, and indeed, the whole house was full of smoke! I turned off the oven but the fire alarms started ringing anyway, waking up everyone else in the house (only one kid slept through, and had no idea what had happened!). Quickly, we all started opening the doors and windows and waving towels back and forth in front of the smoke detectors.

It took us an hour, but we finally got all the smoke out of the house.

So, what did I do wrong? Nothing!

Were the instructions wrong? Also not!

Turns out, there was some sort of spill in the oven from all our Pesach cooking that was now burning and creating all the ruckus.

So what’s the lesson here?

Yes, if you want shalom bayit, if you want a beautiful home and peaceful marriage, always listen to your wife. But when you smell smoke, use your common sense and don’t ignore it!

We just enjoyed a beautiful Passover with all of our children at home together for the first time in months—a real treat for all of us.

On Chol Hamoed we decided to go on a few trips since we were all off from work.

Challenge number one is finding somewhere in the tri-state area that isn’t packed with thousands of other people all going on Chol Hamoed trips, not to mention all the schools on spring break!

The second, and perhaps bigger, challenge, is figuring out a trip that will be enjoyed and appreciated by all ages from 19 down to our 7-year-old triplets. The teens want to go skydiving and bungee jumping and the triplets want to go to a petting zoo … kinda hard to find a middle ground there!

I was the one in charge of planning the trips, and trying to please everyone turned out to be an all-consuming task. Our mornings would start with me suggesting, “Ok, I found a great place. Let’s go to American Dream Mall.” This would be met with cries and shouts and loud opinions and lots of “I’m not going!”

The next day I’d say, “Let’s go zip-lining” and that too would descend into chaos and bickering and tears.

Finally, I just said, “Ok, enough! Everyone just get into the car and I’ll tell you where we’re going when we get there.”

Oh, we also couldn’t drive too far because our minivan doesn’t have quite enough room for all of us and it gets crampy and much fighting over who’s sitting where and who’s squishing who ensues.

But we found some interesting places! Did you know that right here in Brooklyn there’s a place you can go horseback riding on the beach? They put you on a horse, with no instructions or rules, and off you go! It reminded me of growing up in Africa. This was my kids’ first time riding and they loved it—at least the older ones did!

In the evenings we played laser tag and went to escape rooms owned and operated by my friend Meiram Wunder.

Another day we took the Subway to Times Square and went to an attraction called Rise NY, which the kids loved! It’s an immersive flight simulator that takes you soaring 30 feet in the air over the NYC skyline. It feels as if you are a bird, traveling the length and breadth of NYC from the sky.

My kids loved it, but I am terrified of heights and even though my brain kept telling me I’m sitting in a chair, on the ground, it felt so real I had to keep my eyes closed most of the time.

But as I thought about it, I began to see a parallel to our lives. What I’m seeing as I soar over NYC is not real, just like most of what we see as we soar through life isn’t real.

Money, fame, success, fancy cars, nice vacations, expensive clothes — none of that is real! It’s all a simulation. What’s real is G-dliness, Torah and mitzvot. Those and those alone are truth. Everything else is merely a fanciful distraction.

Life is fleeting. Just like the simulation is temporary and ephemeral, our lives and experiences are also too. When we recognize and accept that, we can focus on what’s really true and lasting and important: G-d. Shabbat. Kosher. Tefillin. Charity. Kindness. Prayer.

This week, I received a text message that left me speechless. It was from Moshe, a wounded IDF soldier in his 40’s who visited my office a few weeks ago while he was here in New York receiving treatment through our Belev Echad program.

We had a wonderful meeting, discussing his treatment options (he needed surgery to heal his tremendous pain), and then I asked him if he wanted to put on tefillin—something I routinely do whenever I meet people. He said yes, we wrapped the tefillin and said Shema, and went on with our days. I didn’t give it much further thought.

But now, three weeks later, Moshe texted me, pouring out his heart, revealing that that simple act reignited the spark of his neshama, his soul. He explained that putting on tefillin is not typically high on his list of priorities, but the moment we wrapped them together his passion for spiritual growth was reignited, and he has been putting them on every day since with renewed conviction.

Moshe’s life is not easy! He deals with physical and emotional pain as a result of his injuries and experiences. Nevertheless, he realized that connecting with G-d every day is his top priority, and is taking steps to make that happen.

What about the rest of us? We too, every single one of us, have a neshama deep inside us. The neshama yearns to connect, to do good deeds, to study Torah, in direct contrast to the body’s priorities—enjoying material life.

As I read Moshe’s words, I was touched and inspired. Our simple act of putting on tefillin together caused a ripple effect in his priorities, awakening his neshama and his pintele yid.

And you know what? It awakened my soul too! I was reminded that even in the midst of our busy lives, we have the power to inspire and uplift others.

Every single Jew has a neshama, and all it takes is one small spark to set it aflame.

When a chassid asked the Rebbe Rashab, “What is a chassid?” the Rebbe Rashab answered him, “A chassid is a lamplighter.” In other words, a chassid is one who strives to ignite the spark in his or her fellow Jews’ G-dly souls.

How can you ignite souls? Now is the perfect time! We’re all about to sit around the Seder table—the most widely-observed mitzvah in the Jewish world. Even Jews who are unengaged the rest of the year look for a Seder, for matzah, for some semblance of Pesach. So give it some thought, look around, and figure out who you can invite to your Seder.

And to Moshe, I want to say: thank you! Thank you for being a shining example of resilience, faith, and kindness. Your message has inspired me to continue doing what I do, and I have no doubt it will inspire countless others to do the same.

My daughter came home last night from Israel to be with us for Pesach. She’s been studying in seminary since September, and we’ve all missed her very much! Her siblings have plastered the house with welcome home signs, her room is ready, her bed is made, and we all went to JFK last night to pick her up and bring her home.

I remember being a teenager in yeshiva myself, over 30 years ago, coming home from abroad for Pesach. As much as I loved the independence of studying in yeshiva, maturing and living away from home, I loved coming home even more. It was exhilarating. It’s a feeling that can’t be described. It’s the people, the smells, the sounds, the familiarity, the love … Simply “home.”

As I thought about it, I realized this experience parallels the journey our souls make when they enter our bodies. Before we were born, our souls were living at home, in G-d’s Divine presence. We were comfortable there, with all our brothers and sisters, experiencing an intense bliss that cannot be adequately described. Then, one day, we were sent “abroad” to inhabit a body in this physical world, to live here and study and do mitzvot. Eventually, when we have completed our tasks, we will make our way back home.

In the next couple of weeks, Jews all over the world will sit together to celebrate Pesach. Pesach is the holiday of liberation, of freedom and redemption, of homecoming. We sit around the Seder table, eating matzah and drinking wine, reclining like kings and queens. But we’re not only celebrating our physical exodus from Egypt, but our spiritual liberation from everything that tries to interfere with our connection to G-d and His Torah.

This year, too, we’ll be thinking about the hostages still being held in Gaza, and praying for their immediate release. How their families—and the entire nation—await their homecoming! If there’s anyone who understands the meaning of home, it’s them and the hostages who have already been freed.

As we sing “Leshana haba b’yerushalayim - Next year in Jerusalem,” we’ll be praying for our physical return to the holy land, along with our entire nation’s homecoming with Moshiach and the Final Redemption.