This past weekend, I flew to Israel for my nephew’s wedding. Mazal tov Menni and Sari!
Now, when someone says, “I went to a family wedding,” you might imagine a few aunts, uncles, and cousins. But this was not that. This was hundreds of relatives: aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, great aunts and great uncles, children, grandchildren, great nieces and nephews, and every type of cousin imaginable—first cousins, second cousins, once removed, twice removed … you get the picture! Everywhere I turned, there was another Vigler.
And it struck me just how deeply my roots are planted in this beautiful city of Jerusalem. In fact, if I’d been born there, I’d be a ninth-generation Jerusalemite! I might have been born in Zimbabwe, but the heart of our family still beats strongly in the holiest city in the world.
My grandfather, Reb Sholom Vigler, grew up in Jerusalem under unimaginable circumstances. His father—my great-grandfather—was arrested by the Turkish police for selling bread on the black market, just trying to survive the immense hunger gripping the city. They beat him mercilessly and sent him home, where he died from his injuries two days later. His wife—my great-grandmother—soon died from starvation.
And there was my grandfather, three years old, orphaned and alone, in a city gripped by hunger. He went to live in an orphanage and visited his parents’ graves every week.
How easy it would have been to give up. Natural, even! He had no parents, no one to look out for him. But instead, he chose to fight. That little boy fought for his future, for his very survival, at three years old, at four years old, at five years old. He didn’t succumb to the hunger, the loneliness, the fear or the misery.
He chose life.
And because he made that choice, I was able to stand at my nephew’s chuppah almost a century later surrounded by five generations of his descendants! Five generations!
There were cousins from every corner of Israel—farmers, soldiers, yeshivah students, religious, not religious—all dancing together with pure joy.
Who could have imagined that one little orphaned boy who refused to give up could be responsible for so much joy!
I looked around and was reminded of what our Sages teach: that the souls of parents and grandparents come down from Gan Eden to be present at the weddings of their descendants.
And I could almost see him, my grandfather, Shalom, standing there, watching his great-great-grandchildren circle the chuppah. I could picture him smiling, saying to himself, “Look what I’ve done. Look what I built. Look what my suffering became.” And I pictured his parents, too, tears flowing, watching on with deep pride.
Every joyous person in that room, every laugh, every hug, every dance, every smile, every mazel tov—all of it was his victory.
Most of us don’t face circumstances nearly as dire, but we, too, face circumstances in which we have to fight to triumph. When we fight for what’s right instead of what’s easy, we win. When we go out of our comfort zone to help another or to do something for G-d, we are victorious. When we give more charity than is comfortable, we leave our mark on the world.
Next time you’re considering giving up, picture my grandfather—that small orphaned three-year-old—and push yourself to keep going. Look what he accomplished—just imagine what your future holds!